


Hooked Up

by TheAlienQueenOfTragedy (Sweety_Mutant)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Blood, Bottom Napoleon, Clueless Illya, Developing Friendships, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Hospitals, M/M, Masochism, Napoleon Whump, Napoleon is a Little Shit, Orgy, Pining illya, Reluctant Partners, Reluctant Sadist, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, Swearing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 55
Words: 75,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17760095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/TheAlienQueenOfTragedy
Summary: When Illya was assigned a new partner, he was surprised. Then he was angry....“Meet me in the café where it all began, the morning after you come back, at nine. I will be waiting.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic for Camp NaNoWriMo July 2016, and here I am, 2 and a half years later, finally publishing it! This fic was actually hard on me. It's old, my style has evolved since, but it taught me things. Important things about my writing. And I hated it sometimes. But I still love it. I might write a sequel to it, if you readers want it. I would love that.  
> So, the fic is actually ~ fiiiiniiiished ~  
> Although the fic is finished, I have yet to re-cut the chapters properly, hence the "?". But don't worry. You won't be getting half a 70k word long fic and be left without dessert. :p 
> 
> Now, this fic plays with hard themes. You read the tags, I know. But please please, if you don't feel safe, leave. And if not, enjoy! But safety first, as my colonel used to say.
> 
> One last point: the UNIVERSE SETTING:
> 
> The fic happens in a world that is more this of the 1960s TV Series than of the movie, in the way U.N.C.L.E. works as an organization, its relationship to other powers, etc. It's not overly important towards the plot, since not much happens in the U.N.C.L.E. HQ, but if you know the series, you will definitely see references at characters, villains, places. If you only know the movie, it should not be a problem. Illya is just a full time U.N.C.L.E. agent, way less affiliated with the KGB than in the movie. 
> 
> Disclaimer: If I owned the movie, I would have had the balls to make it gay :* Luckily we have fanfiction.
> 
> Now, enjoy!

When he had finished reading the file containing the information relative to his new mission, Illya was stunned. He looked at his boss, Alexander Waverly, but found no more information in the older man’s eyes.

Illya looked at the file again. The outline of the mission was easy enough. To infiltrate a party thrown by a Franco-American crime leader, Miss Belmont, to get in contact with an Italian fascist arm dealer, Victoria Vinciguerra, so wealthy and powerful that she was unattainable… The usual business for an agent like Illya. Yet, when reading closely, it was something else. The party was nothing less than a sado-masochist meet-up, and even if in his years working for the KGB, Illya had already had to do honeypots, it was something he highly disliked.

Worst, he would not be alone on this mission. Illya had thought that he would be paired with his usual partner, Gaby, and even if the mission was despicable, the both of them would have done great work, as they always do. But not this time, no. This time, Mr Waverly had paired him with… He looked at the second file. On the front page, the picture of a smiling brunette. The man was handsome, looked classy and attractive. The details under the picture though… were less attractive.

The man, who went by the nickname of “Cowboy” –his real name was nowhere on the file– was, if Illya was to be polite, a prostitute. Illya had read the whole file, and without even knowing the man, he already despised him. From what he had read, _Cowboy_ was only servicing the richest, flashiest perverts, and there was no sinking too low for him. His record was also impressive with lists of thievery, mostly jewels and cars, drunken driving, drug use… he had already spent some time in jail. He was not even part of UNCLE, he was no agent, no spy. Why had Mr Waverly paired him with such a man?

When Illya asked him, Waverly’s only answer was:

“Miss Teller is already working on another important mission. I am certain that the both of you will be a successful team. Besides, the gentleman owes me a favour.”

Illya had shrugged, unconvinced. He had to go undercover for the mission, posing as a rich heir whose family had fled Russia during the Revolution. Still, money was not all that was needed to enter Miss Belmont’s party. One needed to bring their partner. A submissive partner, and that was supposed to be Cowboy’s part. Illya did not even know the man. How could they pose as believable partners…?

Waverly spoke again, putting an end to Illya’s thoughts:

“Your plane for Paris is scheduled in three days. I have made an appointment with your partner-to-be for tomorrow morning. He will be waiting for you in a café,” Waverly gave then a paper with an address for Illya. “You will then spent the next days together, get acquainted. You know how to contact me if necessary.” Having said that, Waverly took the files back and dismissed Illya.

Walking through UNCLE headquarters, Illya wished very much that Gaby was here and not somewhere in the Brazilian jungle, having probably too much fun.

He sulked for most of the evening, and went to bed in a bad mood. He got up not rested, and almost late for his rendezvous. Jumping in a handy cab, Illya grumbled the address, and in a few minutes, the cab dropped him in front of a fancy café. There, on the balcony, sat the same brunette that Illya had seen on the pictures. He was drinking black coffee while looking at the street. Not even gesturing to a waiter, Illya sat down on the empty chair in front of the man. None of them said anything until the waiter brought two coffees. Cowboy thanked him warmly, and then looked at Illya, warm blue eyes detailing the Russian with too much intelligence for his liking.

“Well, Mr Warverly had told me you were the cold type, but I was expecting at least a hello.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and that it made you want to read the next part! I will publish chapters on Wednesdays, and in the meantime feel free to comment and leave kudos, they make my day! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Due to the reception of the first chapter, which went beyond my expectations (Thank you thank you so much, giving love to this thorny fic!) I decided to change the updates from weekly on wednesday to bi-weekly on wednesdays and sundays! Yay! \^^/
> 
> Now, enjoy chapter 2!

Illya did not answer. He glared from over his cup of coffee, and Cowboy smirked at him. Illya was trying to reconcile the image he had in front of him with the pictures he had seen in the files. Cowboy was smartly dressed, a three piece suite that looked and smelled money. Clean, black leather shoes. Hair perfectly done. So different from the pictures. Illya had seen him dishevelled, obviously drunk or drugged, in various stages of undress and in all sort of compromising positions.

“I don’t want to work with you.”

Cowboy did not even look surprised at Illya’s words. He arched an eyebrow and, finishing his cup of coffee, answered:

“No one ever asks me if I want or not to do things. I owe your boss, so let’s get going.”

If there was an innuendo in the sentence, Illya did not care about it, and without asking for Illya’s agreement or anything, Cowboy got up then, and flashed a banknote to a nearby waitress, gesturing to their table with a wink. He slipped the banknote under his cup and left, a frowning Illya on his heels.

In the street, a car Illya recognized as being driven by one of UNCLE’s men pulled up in front of them. The chauffeur opened the door, and Illya got in, followed by Cowboy. On the backseat, there was a note from Waverly, along with a key in an envelope.

_ Your chauffeur will drive you to a safe house near the airport. Get acquainted. The cupboards are full and your plane tickets are already on the living room’s table. _

_ Have a safe trip, _

_ A.W. _

Illya took the paper, made a ball out of it, then he slipped the key in his pocket. The trip through the streets of New York was silent, Illya sulking and Cowboy ignoring him, looking through the tinted window. Illya had not liked his display of seductiveness to the waitress. He did not like his smooth voice, nor his sparkling eyes. He did not like the familiarity… He had appreciated the coffee, black and expensive like Cowboy’s suit. Bitter like himself.

 

The safe house looked no different than any other house on the street, and the car pulled up in front of the door, leaving the two passengers enough time to get out of the car before leaving. Both men went in, wary, and Illya put a firm hand on Cowboy’s chest.

“Do not move. I will check if it is safe.”

“As you will Sir,” answered Cowboy, half mocking half contemptuous. Illya brushed it off and proceeded to check for any bug, any camera… after half an hour, he was more or less sure that the house was indeed safe. Nothing but UNCLE material there, and he had of course destroyed everything that was in his room. He was somehow glad to find that his belongings had already been packed and were waiting for him at the foot of the bed.

Upon his return to the entrance, he noticed that Cowboy was not there anymore. He felt a pang of anger.  _ A mission with a child… Cannot even obey an order. _ Illya found the American in the kitchen, looking through the cupboards. There was already half a glass of brandy on the counter.

Illya huffed, and Cowboy ignored him until, his glass in hand, he tried to leave the kitchen, finding himself face to face with the Russian’s sturdy body.

“I told you not to move.”

“Hmm…” Cowboy looked at him, drinking slowly from his glass. “I was getting bored.”

Illya did not know what he was waiting for, standing in the doorway. An apology? He stepped aside, and Cowboy slipped into the living room, finishing his glass lying on the couch. Illya was annoyed. He had tried his best to be civil, and it had been very hard, but the man in front of him was true to what he had read in the files. Unable to respect anything. A drunk. Obnoxious. All Illya had to do was to take Cowboy’s suit off, and the twisted picture he had in mind would be perfect. Well. He would not do that, never ever. He was grateful that, for the moment, Cowboy had not tried anything on him. What was he expecting? His logical side chastised him. Cowboy may have been a hooker, but that did not mean that he had to be a slut, trying to jump on everything. Illya was suddenly pulled out of his reverie by Cowboy’s voice:

“I don’t want to intrude Mr Kuryakin, but should we not try to get to know each other? We have to work together, so it only seems logical to me…”

Illya did not want to get to know him. He wanted for the mission to already be over.

“You know my name.” Cowboy nodded. “Mr Waverly told you about the mission, I suppose?”

“Yes, of course, what do you think?” answered Cowboy, his feet propped up on the couch’s armrest.

“We don’t need to know more about each other then.”

Illya had not wanted his tone to be so harsh, only neutral. Still, his answer took Cowboy apart. Various emotions flashed in his eyes, from a barely there sorrow to acceptance. Illya decided to add something to his words, but the moment they got out of his mouth, he understood that they had not helped at all:

“I don’t trust you.”

Cowboy got up from the couch in one swift mov. He put his empty glass on the table, not caring about the files.

“I have no choice but to trust you, and so do you. So, Mr Kuryakin, do me a favor and let’s finish this as quickly as possible.” There had been something in Cowboy’s voice that unsettled Illya. Something that did not belong to the voice of a hooker. Something a bit too solemn. Yet Illya had not time to answer as Cowboy got up and slammed the bathroom’s door. Soon, one could hear the water running, and Illya remained on the couch. He did not want to get to bed so soon. He wanted to call Gaby, to ask her for help on how to deal with lewd Americans. Half an hour later, Cowboy got out of the bathroom, a wave of hot sweet smelling fog slipping through the door. He directly went to his room, and Illya did not move from the couch. He decided to read again Cowboy’s file, wondering how one could be such a... he had no words. His instructors, back at the KGB, had warned him about Americans. All filthy perverts, weak and lustful…

Yet Cowboy was right. They had no choice but to work together. Illya went to bed, hoping that sleep would come soon. He had spent many sleepless nights on his last mission, and a nap would be more than welcome. This afternoon, they would have to think of a strategy for the mission, and he did not look forward to it.Illya was awoken by all kind of annoying noises. Something that sounded like frying, wood clanking against metal and above it all, a voice whistling a tune. It took him a few seconds to realise that the noises were coming from the kitchen, yet he had already his gun in hand.  _ Better safe than sorry…  _ Illya relaxed, looked at his beloved watch. It was already half past one in the afternoon. He had slept quite well then.

Illya got up and stretched his arms. He slipped the gun in his belt and smoothed the wrinkles on his trousers. It was time to go to the kitchen and check on Cowboy.

With silent steps, Illya walked from his room to the kitchen. Cowboy was indeed there, in his black suit trousers and white shirt. His sleeves were expertly rolled up and he was cooking something that smelled quite nice. A mix of breakfast and alcohol. Illya then noticed that there were two plates and silverware on the kitchen table. Two glasses. One empty, one a quarter full of brandy.

“Hello there,” said Cowboy, not looking away from the pan.

“Hello,” answered Illya naturally. There, Cowboy turned around, surprise on his face. Illya looked at him quizzically. _ What?  _ He had said to himself that he would try to be civil. Cowboy flashed him a smile then, and went on cooking.

“I made fried eggs, there are tomatoes also. It’s quite late I know, but I did not want to make sandwiches.”

Illya nodded. He had not eaten breakfast, nothing but a black coffee, and the food smelled good. He did not care for the hour. He sat down at the table. A few seconds later, Cowboy put the hot pan on the table between their plates and helped himself to a share of eggs and tomatoes, leaving the spoon in the pan. Illya took some too, and he had not even begun to eat, wary of the heat, that Cowboy was already digging into his plate.

They ate without talking. There was tension in the air, hate at first sight. Still, Illya noticed that Cowboy kept glancing at him. There was something in his eyes, behind the sassy confidence, that Illya refused to see as apprehension.

When the meal was finished, it was clear to the both of them that they had to at last try to find a strategy. The living room was full of files about the mission, the people they might see in Paris, people to avoid. Cowboy was flicking through them, sometimes muttering an appreciative comment, sometimes barely looking. When he got to Victoria’s file, he spent a little bit too much time looking at her.

“So she is our mark then… Victoria Vinciguerra… Mr. Waverly did not lie, she is indeed quite beautiful.”

“Dangerous,” said Illya. “She may have information that Mr. Waverly needs, and I have to get her to trust me.”

“Really?” Cowboy looked incredulous. “Good luck then,” he added with a mocking smirk.

Illya tried his best not to look vexed. His cover was good, and he knew his job. Who was this… whore to tell him anything? Cowboy discarded Victoria’s file then, and got to Miss Lucia Belmont’s. He looked intently at the brunette’s face, something akin to disgust in his eyes, then threw the file on top of the pile.

“I hope we won’t have to be too close to  _ her,” _ Cowboy said, pointing at Miss Belmont’s picture.

Illya looked up from the file that he was reading. Why had Cowboy said that? Mr Waverly had not told him that Cowboy knew the people there. It was not right…“Wait… do you know her?”

“She… Let’s say that she used to be a client. Once or twice.” From the look Cowboy kept giving the picture, dealing with Miss Belmont had not been an agreeable experience. For a second, between his important thoughts, Illya wondered if, when Cowboy had said client, he had spoken of sex or thievery. Maybe both… He mentally slapped himself. There was work to do, dammit!

Long minutes passed, and Illya noticed that they had both stopped reading. There were questions in the air, between them, and none of them were really willing to ask them for the moment. Cowboy got up, walked to the kitchen and came back with two cups of coffee.

Illya took his cup and drank. No sugar… good. Cowboy was laying on the couch, playing with a ring on his middle finger. He looked at Illya through lazy lids and said:

“So… Does our great spy have any strategy? After we’ve walked through the front door of the bitch’s den, and after we’ve been stripped naked by armed thugs of course.”

Illya did not answer at once. He had, to be honest, no real strategy to get to Victoria. He needed to speak to her, and to propose her a deal: he needed arms, had money. They would then make an appointment, to which Illya would go, knowing very well that it could be a trap. But he would not be alone then, and UNCLE would be behind him to cover. To bug. He would need luck for this mission. Illya had no doubt that Miss Belmont’s security staff would be very cautious, and, as Cowboy had put it, Illya would not have access to many tools nor arms. Nor many clothes. Only guile, charm and brains. If Cowboy was able to put on a good show also… Illya felt a headache coming. Those missions were by far his least favourites.

“Oh, and another question, we’ll have to act as sexual partners so–”

Illya had answered without thinking, without even letting Cowboy a chance to finish his sentence.

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter and look forward for the next! As always, I feed on kudos and comments, and am really amazed at how you liked it so far!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the third chapter, will they manage to get along?  
> Enjoy! <3

Illya did not really know what this no, so uncompromising, had stood for.

_No, I don’t have a strategy yet. I improvise._

_No, I don’t want to do anything sexual with you._

_No. Stop talking, I’m trying to concentrate. I’m thinking._

Illya looked up when he heard Cowboy leaving his spot on the couch. He wondered for a moment if he had upset the American… _He must not be accustomed to rejection._ Yet, Cowboy came back a few seconds later with a new glass of brandy. He drank it in front of Illya in one gulp, and got closer. Too close, way too close.

“Listen here, icicle. I see in your eyes that you don’t like me. I am a whore, I know. You think I’m just scum, I get it. But get in your head that I want to get on my knees for you as much as you want to lead me on a leash at this party. So don’t make it harder for everybody.”

Illya swallowed. He was not nervous, he was not impressed. No. It was only Cowboy’s breath, hot with alcohol on his face and neck. It was the hand that cleverly began to touch his arm, climbing higher and higher until it rested on his shoulder. Illya jerked away.

“Don’t touch me.”

Cowboy smiled, more mocking than genuinely amused. There was also something dark in his eyes.

“Oh, but that’s what I do. That’s what I’m paid to do.” Cowboy’s hand then found its way on Illya’s knee, where it stayed, too hot and soft, even through the linen of the trousers. It was a hand of sin for Illya. It was not a temptation, he was above it, but despicable nonetheless. Cowboy went on, his tone lower. “I am sure that you’ll come to like it.”

“No…” It was a growled threat, yet Cowboy did not move his hand away from Illya’s knee.

“They all do. Waverly made me read your file. You’ve already done this, so stop playing the virgin with me.”

Illya growled again.

“I hate it.”

Cowboy pouted, his face an exaggerated mask of empathy. “Poor little Russian boy.”

There, Illya had to use all his inner strength not to hit him. He would not be mocked by this little shit, mission or not.

“Your job is to get to Vinciguerra. My job is to allow you to enter by playing the fucktoy. We stick to that, Kuryakin, and we’ll be back here in no time.” While saying that, Cowboy had locked eyes with Illya, and his tone had gone from seductive to deadly serious. His hand though, was now touching the inside of Illya’s thigh. Illya got up. That was already too much contact for his liking. Besides, it was time to rest. The evening had come surprisingly quickly, painting the outside a deep blue.

“Agreed. We’ll see the details tomorrow.”

Yet tomorrow came too soon for Illya’s liking. They had yet to find a strategy, a pattern for the party. Illya agreed with Cowboy on one point: they had to work together, even for a day. This mission was important. They hated each other, they did not even know each other. They were there, in the small living room of a safe house in the middle of New York. They were a few feet away from each other, files all over the floor. The clock ticked by, they had to work together. The clock ticked by, neither of them was hungry for something else than coffee.

From time to time, Illya looked in Cowboy’s direction, to have an idea of what he was doing. The American was lost in his thoughts, playing with a pencil. He was also mostly ignoring Illya, yet he cast him a sideway glance when Illya’s staring became too obvious.

“You know what the problem is, Kuryakin?” Illya shook his head, without really listening. “Trust.”

Well, that seemed obvious to Illya. He had made clear that he did not trust the whore, and he had no idea if Cowboy trusted him.

“How repeating that is going to help?”

“Because we need to work on that. You do not trust me, it’s normal. You have no reason to. But remember where we’re going?”

Illya nodded. He would have liked for Cowboy to get straight to the point.

“SM is all about trust. Trust between the dominant and the submissive, the trust that one will not harm, will stop, will not hurt, will not be afraid to speak.” There, Illya had to admit that Cowboy was right. The American was far more experienced than him in this field, but they needed to be at least believable. “I can trust you. I’ve no choice, and I’ve trusted worst people in my life. Besides, you’re from U.N.C.L.E. so you can’t be too bad. But if you cannot trust me, we won’t succeed.”

Illya nodded again. It seemed to him that Cowboy still had things to say, and it was indeed the case.

“Also, you realize we won’t be alone…” said Cowboy, his hand back on Illya’s shoulders. Ilya tensed. “There will be people watching. You may even lend me to some of them. Experienced people, who might notice… I know how to play this role, trust me. All I need is for you to stop flinching each time I touch you.”

Cowboy took his hand away then, and looked at Illya. He was expecting an answer.

“Yes. As you said we have no choice. We try our best.”

Cowboy smiled then, bright, too bright. The air seemed more breathable, and Illya even got up from his seat to make coffee. They still needed to find how they were going to play everything, and it was not going to be easy. Illya knew very well that he was not the most eager partner one could have. At lunch, Cowboy had managed to make him agree to call him “kitten”. The Russian version, _Котёнок_. Illya found it degrading, since neither him nor Cowboy was really willing. He also knew that he had to accept, and for a moment, he felt that for the supposed “dominant partner”, he was not the one taking decisions… He needed to think more. Having eaten sandwiches, they set to work again, in a less heavy silence than before.

“I may have an idea!” Cowboy said after long silent hours.

Illya looked at him, biding him to go on with a gesture of the hand.

“Denial.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Illya was in no mood for guesses. He had not slept well, and they needed to find a solution, quickly. They might not have been at each other’s throats anymore, yet he did not read into Cowboy’s thoughts.

“You can deny me touch. Release. This way, it will be easier for you: you won’t have to do anything besides ordering me around and of course,” he smirked then, a dirty amused smile, “punishing me when I’ll become overeager.”

Illya was beginning to understand. It could indeed be the solution… it would at least make the whole ordeal more bearable for him. He did not really care about Cowboy, yet he asked:

“What will you do, you?”

“Me,” answered Cowboy, his face twisted in a smile that Illya had trouble interpreting, “I’ll do my job, like I always do.”

Illya slowly nodded. Well… this could maybe do.

Having come to an agreement, both men went to their separate rooms. They were flying to Paris tomorrow, and things would get serious then. Maybe it would work. Maybe not. Illya had no choice but to make it work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the chapter, next one will be on Sunday evening!  
> As always i love hearing your thoughts about the fic, and I also answer and send virtual hugs!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I loved reading your thoughts and comments, thank you <3 Thank you also for all the kudos, and for reading! On to the chapter, enjoy!

The next morning, both Illya and Cowboy got up early. The plane was scheduled to take off at nine o’clock, so they had to get ready quickly. The same car that had brought them to the safe house was waiting for them, and the trip to the airport was silent.

The plane was relatively empty. Illya’s legs were too long to allow him to be comfortable in the seat, and the sky was cloudy. Beside him, Cowboy had closed his eyes a few minutes after the plane had taken off, and was now sleeping like a baby, mouth slightly open and too charming even when unconscious. Illya was soon annoyed by Cowboy’s calm and relaxed state. Illya wanted to rest. He wanted to stop worrying about the mission.  _ Well, at least I care about the outcome of the mission. _

During long hours, since sleep would not come, Illya had nothing better to do than thinking again and again about the mission. In his head, he turned it over, upside down… He was annoyed. Not so much by the sexual content, as Cowboy had put it, he had already done that.  _ Lie down and let it go, it’s not difficult. _ It was not so much Cowboy the problem, now that he thought about it. The man was obnoxious, overconfident, yet, he seemed bent on carrying out his part of the mission. What could it be then? Illya tried to pin-point the problem. He was close to getting himself a headache when he finally found it. Waverly. It was Mr Waverly’s attitude, the problem. Illya did not understand why he had not chosen another U.N.C.L.E. agent than him, one more experienced in this field… Worst, why had he brought somebody that had nothing to do with the network in? Cowboy must have had at least some high level of security clearance to be allowed into the safe house, yet Mr Waverly had not even given Illya Cowboy’s real name. How was he to trust a whore with no name?

How could they learn to work together in two days, when they were so different, when they did not even know each other? Illya missed Gaby. If there was something amiss, she would have seen it immediately. She would have known.

Illya looked at Cowboy’s sleeping form then. Maybe he knew. Maybe he was keeping some information from Illya… No. It did not seem right. Yet, Illya was certain that if Cowboy knew anything, he would not tell him, and who was Illya to blame him?

When the plane finally landed, Illya’s legs and back were stiff and painful. Cowboy yawned and stretched his back as they walked out of the airport. There were many people around, a ballet of cars and cabs carrying travellers in and out. Illya hailed a cab, and they were swiftly taken to their hotel.

The hotel was usual UNCLE luxury: quite expensive, with liquor cabinets and a room service that knew to be discreet. Much to his relief, he and Cowboy were in different rooms. On the same floor, but a few doors away. Illya checked his watch. It was already seven in the afternoon. After checking for bugs, Illya and Cowboy agreed that they needed to brief the mission again, while eating their dinner. Once the room service brought them sandwiches – _ again _ – they set to work.

They rehearsed their roles, checking through files again while eating.

They had had no time to really prepare themselves, and as Cowboy put it once he had finished his first sandwich, they should try to look as much a believable couple as possible.

Illya had not yet finished eating when Cowboy, who had walked to the other end of the room, said:

“Let’s test something: Order me Kuryakin.”

Illya wondered for a moment what he could ask.

“Come?”

Cowboy looked at him, dubious.

“Can you do any better? I said believable.”

“Come here _ Котёнок _ .” Illya pointed to a spot near him. Cowboy fell to his knees and crawled on all fours towards Illya, his hips swaying in a suggestive way. When he got a few inches away from Illya, he stayed on his knees, arms behind his back and head bowed. Illya understood that he was in fact waiting for something… Reward.  _ Sure. _

Illya tentatively put his hand under Cowboy’s jaw, lifting it up. He let his fingers trail up the cheek.

“ _ Good boy.” _

Cowboy leaned into the touch, smiling softly. He said, opening his eyes:

“Good, good, this will do.” His eyes changed a bit then, more mischievous. “Okay now, if I do this,” Cowboy put his two hands on Illya’s legs, “what do you do?”

Illya did not react.

Cowboy then moved slowly, his head getting closer and closer to Illya’s crotch. Illya wanted to jerk away when he felt the hot breath against the fabric of his trousers. If possible, Cowboy’s face got even closer to Illya.

“ _ Stop.” _ The tone was cold, unyielding. Illya had lifted his hand, not really sure if he would have done something. There, Cowboy grinned and in one swift move, he got up.

“Perfect Kuryakin, perfect.”

Illya breathed out. The mission would be difficult, but maybe his distaste for Cowboy would be useful.

In less than an hour, they would leave their hotel rooms to go to Miss Belmont’s party. Illya wanted to rest, and he told so to Cowboy. Before leaving the room to get inside his own, the American got a hand on the back of Illya’s neck, crashing their lips in an unexpected kiss. Cowboy slipped his tongue through Illya’s lips when the surprise had made him gasp. It was, a deep, hungry kiss. Perfectly faked desire and passion. Illya struggled, but Cowboy was an expert, and he was strong. When Illya finally threw him away, Cowboy left before he had time to punch him in the nose. Illya swore in Russian, cheeks hot. The night would be long, too long.

Oh no, it would not be that hard to punish Cowboy if needed.

It took Illya a few minutes to calm down. It was part of the role, it was not disrespect, and Cowboy must have hated it as much as he had. Well. Anton Nazarov, the rich heir he had to become, liked lewd brunettes. Illya would disappear behind this mask for the night, for the job. He would thicken his accent a little bit, and when he looked inside his suitcase, he would also wear clothes that were by no means his usual style. Illya was simple, practical. What Waverly had given him was… white, with wide lapels and were those gilded embroideries on the sleeves? He huffed, disgusted. Those clothes were neither practical nor classy. He would look like some sort of filthy rich… whatever he was supposed to be. There was also a matching hat and golden rings. Illya put on the clothes, but decided to forget the hat. At least, the clothes were fitting. He slipped his gun in his shoulder holster, and reverently put his watch in his suitcase. He would not risk losing it for such a mission. Besides, he had a big, flashy golden one to wear instead.

It was time to go. Illya left his room, and knocked on Cowboy’s. A few seconds later, the American opened the door, wearing a long black coat, his warm eyes highlighted by black make up. He was Anton’s regular partner, a high-end prostitute whom he carried around like a trophy. They looked at each other, nodded.

The mission had begun.

They took a cab to the address, the night sky lighted by Paris’s lights. Illya could feel the adrenaline in his blood, tensing his muscles, heightening his senses. Beside him, Cowboy seemed also deeply focused. He breathed in, breathed out, looking at the invitation, the neat, impersonal handwriting.  _ Forged? _ He did not know.

Cowboy looked at him, and said:

“You’ll need those. I suppose you know how to use them.” He then handed to Illya a thin leash made out of a golden chain, and a black ball-gag. Illya looked dubiously at the objects, and put them into his pockets.

“Yes, I know.”

“Keep me on the leash most of the time, don’t worry, I’m good at being docile. For the gag… I’m afraid it will be necessary, but I highly despise it.”

Illya nodded. He despised the mere idea conveyed by those objects, but it was not like he had any choice.

The cab stopped, and Cowboy held the door open for Illya. He was already playing his role, eyes cast down and walking a step behind Illya. They walked for about a hundred meters, before stopping in front of a big mansion. Two tall men were standing in front of the doors, and Illya saw several couples entering.

He locked eyes with Cowboy again, and stepped forward. As expected, one of the guards gestured for them to stop at a safe distance from the door. Illya looked at him with contemptuous eyes, and, without a hello, handed him the invitation. The guard read it, bowed and showed them the way in. There was no turning back now.

They had barely gotten inside that another guard stopped them.

“Do you have any weapon, anything that you would want us to keep in the lockers?”

Illya did not answer, but took off his shoulder holster. Illya also took the gag and leash from his pocket. The guard gestured him to come forward then, and checked his body. All right. The guard gave him the gag and the leash back.  _ Yes, I know how to use them… _

“Give him your coat and shoes,  _ Котёнок,”  _ Illya then said to Cowboy, who complied quickly.

“ _ Yes Sir _ .”

Cowboy took his coat off, and revealed what he was wearing underneath.

A thin, black silk robe that was tightened at the waist, cut at the upper thighs, not letting much to the imagination. He then took his shoes off, bending forward so that Illya had a perfect view of his ass. Around his neck, Cowboy had a collar of black silk that matched with his robe. There was also a golden ring on the collar.

Illya put the gag back into his pocket.

While the guard checked Cowboy’s body for hidden objects, Illya caught a glance of Cowboy’s member, barely hidden by the robe. He was half-hard, and Illya saw a glimpse of something golden at the base… A ring? Oh well, he preferred not to think too much about it for now. It was Cowboy’s field, and he had said he would take care of it. When Cowboy was released, Illya fastened the leash on the collar. The guard then gestured to another door, at the end of the room. Another black-clad man stood there, and he opened it at once when Illya got there. Cowboy was walking slowly a few feet behind him, at the right pace to never pull on the leash.

Illya had barely put a foot in the room –an immense ballroom from the look of it– that he was already looking for possible escape ways. The number of body guards. If Vinciguerra was… no, she was not in sight for the moment.

There were more than a hundred people in various stages of undress or formal attire there. Many had fancy drinks in their hands. Soon, Illya saw who he guessed was the serving staff. Naked save for high heels and an apron, gagged, several girls were holding silver plates full of exotic alcohols, food and other delicacies. They expertly slalomed between guests, stopping here and there to propose drinks.

Even if Cowboy was following Illya, docile, the Russian could see that his  _ partner  _ was focused on all the doors, the guards and the face of everyone. If Illya had not known better, he would have sworn that Cowboy was some kind of copper, or another spy maybe. It was impossible though… Illya was pulled out of his thoughts by one of the servants, who had stopped in front of him, smiling nicely. A few seconds later, Illya realised that she had been handing him a drink, which he took without a word. He had already made a fool of himself… it was better to stay silent.

Illya did not even drink from the glass. A part of him wondered if there could have been some kind of drug inside, another decided to give it to Cowboy.

“Hold this. Try not to spill anything.”

“ _ Yes Sir _ ,” answered Cowboy in his atrocious accent, worsened by a seductive burr.

Cowboy took the glass then, and Illya went on walking. From the corner of his eye, he could see that several couples were already engaged in some activities. He felt disgusted when his gaze stayed focused a little too long on two persons sitting on one of the many couches, talking, a red clad young woman and a middle aged man. It would have been quite normal if the woman had not been forcing someone’s head between her opened thighs. She had a hand on the submissive’s head, guiding the movements, while her other hand was busy with a cigarette. Illya forced his eyes to look elsewhere when his mind began to think that maybe, he would have to go that far with Cowboy. It was for the mission, it was a show. Those were not reason enough.

By chance, it was at this moment that his gaze wandered to the slim shape of a woman in a revealing leather dress. She had her blonde hair made in an intricate bun, and her feet, clad in thigh-high black leather boots, were leaning on the back of a man that was on all fours on the floor, his head masked by a leatherette hood.

She was here.

With a tug on the leash, he got Cowboy’s attention.

Victoria Vicinguerra, even more beautiful than on the pictures Illya had seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter! Next update will be on Wednesday :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter five, yay! (I should stop cheering since I actually finished writing this fic. but the joy of posting is quite something!)  
> Also, in honor of this chapter, I did a moodboard that I posted on my art-sideblog on Tumblr, go check it out [here](https://reptiliandroidstudio.tumblr.com/post/183103778610/in-honour-of-the-fifth-chapter-being-posted-on).  
> Now on to the chapter, enjoy!

Victoria was so close that Illya could feel the danger. She was drinking, looking around as if waiting for someone. Illya stood silent, unmoving a few seconds, trying to see if there was anybody walking towards her. If she was looking in a particular direction.

Nothing. Nothing, she was just relaxing on a black leather wide sofa. Nothing, he had to grab the chance. He took a deep breath. Maybe, he would need the drink after all.

As he walked in her direction, Illya felt Cowboy tensing up through the leash. He did not care, his mind entirely focused on the mission.

Illya was too soon by Victoria’s side. She did not seem to have noticed him, eyes fixed on a girl that was expertly dancing on a man’s lap a few meters away, slow and supple like a snake. In his head, Illya tried a whole list of different ways to introduce himself to Victoria, but he had no need to, as she was the one to finally turn her head, slow and deliberate.

“Good evening, Sir. I could feel your eyes piercing holes through my back. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

Her voice was smooth and precise, like poisoned honey to Illya’s ears. He executed a small, polite bow, and answered:

“Good evening Miss Vinciguerra. I am Anton Nazarov, sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Oh you did not disturb me at all, I’m dying for some good company.” With a thin, delicate hand, she patted a spot on the couch, next to her. “Your name also seems familiar to me… Nazarov… Wait wait… Oh yes, I’ve heard of your family. We share the same views on certain matters, don’t we?”

Illya nodded, sitting down. “Yes we do.”

“No wonder Miss Belmont invited you here then. She has a knack for remarkable people.”

Once he was sitting on the sofa, Illya noticed that Cowboy had naturally knelt down in front of him, bowed so that his head was almost touching the floor. His hands were above his head, holding the glass like an offering. Illya tried his best not to show any surprise, keeping an icy but polite mask on. He took the glass from Cowboy’s hands, and he clinked it against Victoria’s. He drank a small gulp. It was rather good, maybe drugged and certainly champagne. He would find out soon enough, would he not?

“Your boy here seems very obedient,” remarked Victoria, gesturing to Cowboy with her glass.

“He is. I pay him enough for that.” Illya was dumbstruck. The sentence had flown naturally from his tongue. If he had seen Cowboy’s face, he would have noticed the smile.

Victoria looked intently at him then, all but trying to read Illya’s motives in his eyes. It was high time he started phase two of the mission.

“Actually, Miss Vinciguerra, you must have guessed that ours was not a chance meeting.” Smooth.

“I had thought so indeed,” answered Victoria with a small smile.

“And I had thought… that we could do business together.” Old habits die hard, and Illya could only be a smooth-talker for so long.

“Oh. There was I, thinking that you were only remarkable. Now you interest me. Go on.”

All of Illya’s thoughts were now focused on the mission. On his aim, on the words he had to say to gain Victoria’s trust. He was so concentrated that anything could have happened, he would not have noticed. Cowboy could have stood up and started dancing, or a bomb could have exploded… Nothing happened, of course. Illya said:

“We are all aware of your kind of business Miss Vinciguerra. My family, as you may know, leads different groups of, let’s say… human right fighters.” There was so much subtext in his sentence…

“I’ve heard about them,” smiled Victoria. She had caught the subtext. “Our causes are noble, but you think you need more powerful equipment?”

“Yes I do. I’ve heard of some new weapons that your laboratories were testing, and I must admit that I am more than interested.” U.N.C.L.E. was more than interested.

“Oh yes, those… chemistry is so interesting, is it not? Of course, you understand that they are not ready to be sold and shipped.”

“Yes, yes. I have money. Lots of. I can participate, to help with your current research. Besides, I’d most certainly buy once the weapons will be finished.”

Victoria smiled. Illya could see in her eyes that she was interested. Money had that effect, mostly on the rich, the very rich. They spoke figures. Illya and Victoria raising the bid and lowering, not even an argument. Mandatory business. When Illya added two zeros more to his proposition, Victoria’s eyes widened. She then was lost in her thoughts for a few seconds, as if pondering the offer.

“This is quite interesting Mr Nazarov. Quite… Of course, it need to be thought over, and not in a situation like this.”

“Of course.”

“What do you propose then?” Illya should not hope too much, but Victoria seemed genuinely interested. It could have been a show like his, it was too good to be true. Whatever it was… it was perfect.

“I am staying in France for the next few days, maybe we could meet somewhere else.”

She shook her head. “I’m heading back to Rome tomorrow. I have to check on an important project. But maybe next week? If you don’t mind flying to Italy of course…”

“I don’t mind. I leave the time and place to you.”

Victoria smiled, reeking of danger. Illya was stupid, this was a trap. Exactly what he wanted. She just had to make the appointment, and mission complete, time to go home. Illya was ecstatic, though he never showed it. The whole world had disappeared around him, so he noticed only at the last moment the other woman who had just walked to Victoria’s side. She had a smaller frame, wavy brown hair and a transparent gown. Pointy high heels. Cowboy tensed, Illya could see it on his back’s muscles. Even with the lace mask covering the upper half of her face, the woman’s identity was obvious.

Miss Belmont.

She lightly touched Victoria’s shoulder and the two women shook hands, smiling warmly. Viper friends, thought Illya. Miss Belmont could not have come at a worst moment.

“I had not yet seen you, I was even wondering if you would show up Lucia,” said Victoria, so much sugar in her voice that Illya felt his teeth rot. Miss Belmont laughed, and answered:

“Sorry my darling, I have so many guests to entertain, I really would like to be everywhere at once. How is your evening?”

“Quite charming, thank you very much. I was talking business with Mr Nazarov here,” said Victoria while gesturing at Illya with a delicate hand. Illya wondered if he should greet Miss Belmont, and quite naturally he got up from the couch and bowed.

“Good evening Miss, I am Anton Nazarov, pleasure to meet you.”

Miss Belmont smiled at him and said:

“Pleasure to meet you too Mr Nazarov. Please sit back. I hope I’m not disturbing the two of you!”

“Not at all, we had finished, had we not?” said Victoria.

“Yes we had,” answered Illya. No, they were not finished at all. She had not given him the address, nor the time for the appointment. He hoped that Victoria had not forgotten. He was so close!

“Well, if you don’t mind, I will stay a little bit with you then.”

“Please do! There is plenty of space on the couch,” said Victoria, voice full of polite happiness. She looked at Miss Belmont then, and told her:

“I’m securing a deal with Mr Nazarov. He is very interested in some of my new goods and knows how to be persuasive.”

Miss Belmont chuckled. She had of course understood the innuendo behind Victoria’s words. She sat down on the settee then, on the other side of Illya. She looked at Cowboy then, an appreciative gleam in her eyes, but did not say anything. Illya remembered that Cowboy had already met her. Could that… jeopardize the mission? No. Mr Waverly would have never taken such a risk. Still, Illya was slightly worried, and he would be until they got back to the hotel.

Miss Belmont then chit-chatted with Victoria for a few minutes, meaningless talk about shop and that guest here, that one there. Illya was wondering when it would be polite enough to take his leave. He had no time for such a move though, as Miss Belmont said:

“Anyway, time’s flying! I am sorry my darling Victoria, Mr Nazarov, but I must away. I have to fetch Victor who must be having fun somewhere…” finished Miss Belmont.

Victoria bade her goodbye, Illya too, and in a few seconds Miss Belmont’s silhouette was just another dot in the crowd.

“What a homely hostess… She really is something, isn’t she?”

“Yes indeed,” answered Illya, false admiration in his voice. Victoria smiled then.

While he was speaking, Illya saw Victoria fumble with her purse. She took a small notebook and a golden pen. Scribbled a few words, then gave the note to Illya. “Thank you very much.” He was beyond grateful. Written neatly, a date, the address of a villa somewhere in Italy. He had won. Victoria winked.

“What do you think of a goodwill gift then Mr Nazarov, to our future cooperation?”

Illya nodded. He had not yet understood what she was meaning by that, but she helped him, saying: “Something like… your boy Mr Nazarov? Alexander’s already busy as you can see.”

While saying that, she lightly tapped her heel against the back of her human footstool. Illya nodded again. He was actually in no place to refuse her anything, and she was all too aware of this. With a sharp pull on the leash, Illya forced Cowboy to stand up. He stood there then, head bowed, hands behind his back, while Victoria eyed him appreciatively.

“It’s a pity to have such a pretty boy and to not do anything with him…” whispered Victoria as she trailed a hand down to Cowboy’s stomach, stopping just below the navel. “What do you think Mr Nazarov? What should I do with him?”

Illya was at a loss for words. His brain was drained by the mission, and the only answer he wanted to give her was _don’t touch him, don’t do anything to him._ He was not becoming by any means protective, he knew it was Cowboy’s job. Still, he felt as though he was responsible. Illya needed to think of a good answer. A believable answer.

“Ask him.”

That was brilliant. He could have done worse, for sure, but this answer was close to stupid. Yet, it seemed to amuse Victoria, who asked Cowboy:

“Well then… what should I do to your pretty face?”

Perfectly in his role, Cowboy did not murder Illya with a glare. He did not even look up, and answered Victoria:

“Sir says I have been naughty. Sir says that I should not be allowed to cum tonight Mistress. However you can use me however it pleases you.”

“What a well-educated boy!” Victoria said. She was having too much fun with this, and whether she was aware or not of Illya’s discomfort, she did not show it.

“I’m in a good mood… you can thank your master for that. I am going to be gentle, trust me. In fact, I may have a good idea…” She extended her hand and Illya gave her the leash. She got up from the couch, putting her drink on Alexander’s back. From the name, he just realised that the hooded man was in fact Alexander Vinciguerra, well-known driver and her husband. Dangerous also… Illya really felt like he was in the snake’s den.

“So,” began Victoria, taking Cowboy’s jaw in her hand. “My poor Alexander has had no fun for the evening, so maybe you could take care of him a little bit. Of course, if he spills my drink…” She leaned in closer, “you will both pay for it.”

Cowboy nodded a ‘Yes Mistress’ and Victoria, with a nudge of her foot, pried Alexander’s legs open. The drink wavered on the small of his back, but not a drop spilled. Illya shivered as Cowboy slipped underneath Alexander, immediately setting to work. Victoria must have taken Illya’s move for arousal, because she chuckled, eyes fixed on Cowboy’s mouth and tongue.

Illya too, could not look away. He was glad that he could not see Cowboy’s eyes. It was thus easier to imagine that the whore may have liked it, may have taken pleasure from the act. It was on the other hand certain that Alexander was liking Cowboy’s ministrations. Illya could see a thin layer of sweat on his back, the muscles of his thighs tightening as he tried his best not to move. It was difficult, since Cowboy was doing a very good job, taking Alexander’s cock deep in his throat without gagging. Victoria was finding the show very enjoyable and funny, and she slipped a hand around Illya’s shoulders.

“Now Mr Nazarov, I would not mind some contact… do you dance?”

Illya danced. He knew how, but right now he did not want to dance, and even less with such a woman. He nodded though, and Victoria took the drink from his hand, putting it between Alexander’s shoulder blades. Illya saw him shiver from the contact with the cold glass, and Victoria said, not an ounce of apology in her tone:

“They had it too easy.” She then put her arms around Illya’s neck and, reluctantly, he put one around her shoulders, another at her slim waist. They swayed to the slow music, their bodies too close to Illya’s tastes. From time to time, Illya glanced at Cowboy, who was currently licking Alexander’s balls while his hand slowly, oh so slowly stroked his member. Illya tried to look at Cowboy’s face. He was too curious for his own good. Cowboy had his eyes closed, a crease on his brow. He was focused on his task, pleasuring Alexander while steadying his legs with his other hand, palms on the inner thigh. Illya remembered how the same hand had felt on his own legs, only a few hours ago. If he had not stopped Cowboy in the hotel, would he have gone as far as that… No. Cowboy was really a pro. He had been rehearsing, testing Illya. There was no use dwelling on this now, especially not since Illya had never wanted to be touched. Even less now that it was Victoria who was touching him.

They danced for a few minutes then, and out of the corner of his eye, Illya saw that Alexander was shaking now, getting closer and closer to his peak, Cowboy’s mouth enclosing his cock again. The glasses were shaking dangerously, and even if she had her head on Illya’s shoulder, Victoria had her eyes fixed on the champagne. She stopped moving the moment Alexander climaxed, his body tensing up. The glass between his shoulder blades spilled over then, cold liquid on his back. Victoria smiled like a shark. She disentangled herself from Illya.

“Now, I was just waiting for that to happen…” Illya read in her voice that the sadistic part of her was indeed happy. He, for one, did not enjoy the new situation much. With a snap of her fingers, Victoria ordered Alexander to get up, and he did, legs shaky from the lack of movement. Once he was standing in front of her, looking down, she said, voice at the same time cold and full of promises:

“What did I say?”

“You asked me not to move Mistress,” answered Alexander at once.

She slapped him then, and even with the hood, Illya heard the man moan. Cowboy was laying supine, some cum still dripping on his jaw, some drops falling on the floor. Victoria seemed not to care about him for now.

“Yes, and also…” she went on, as if she was speaking to a stupid child. Illya was embarrassed for Alexander, even if he despised the man to no end.

“You said that if I spilled your drink, we would be punished.”

“I said just that. Now… fetch me the crop.”

Without answering, Alexander scurried away, not bothered by the hood, and came back a few seconds, holding a black leather riding crop. Victoria took it and turned it between her fingers. She pointed to Alexander with the tip of the crop.

“I’ll start with this one, if you agree.” Illya nodded. He did not want for any of the submissives to be punished, even if the logical part of his brain told him that Alexander genuinely enjoyed it and that Cowboy… well if he did not enjoy it then he was doing his job. She snapped her finger three times, and Alexander lied down on his back then, not caring that he was on the floor. His legs were parted and Victoria stepped in between them, her heels dangerously close to his crotch. She caressed his torso with the crop, slow movements to build up the tension. Then, without any warning, she stuck him on the lower stomach. A second time, and three more, barely pausing in between. Even if Illya heard several whimpers of pain, muffled by the hood, he also saw that Alexander was getting hard again. He was very much enjoying it.

Illya did not count how many times the crop fell. Sometimes it was on his lower stomach. Sometimes on his inner thighs. Alexander was rock-hard now, precum leaking on his pubic hair. Victoria was smiling, visibly aroused and enjoying herself.

“You like that so much darling… I’d say you were looking for it.” She then delivered one last stroke, right above his engorged member, and he moaned again, a needy and pained sound at the same time. Victoria looked at Illya then, and said:

“Don’t you think the way he responds is so cute? I would love to punish yours too… but I suppose you’d like to do that yourself. I would not want to ruin all of your fun.” She handed the crop to Illya, who warily took it with a forced smile. He locked eyes with Cowboy, who imperceptibly nodded.  _ Yes go on. I trust you Kuryakin. _

 

It was only logical that Cowboy trusted Illya more than he trusted Victoria. However, Illya had not signed up for this. He weighed the crop, looking at the tip. He did not know how he would proceed… Where could he hit Cowboy without making too much damage… without seeming too gentle? He hoped that this was all right for his partner. They had not so much talked about potential punishments, and now Illya regretted it. He would have preferred if Victoria had done it. He had no choice, he would not dare to seem insulting, not when everything had played out so well for him. Besides, he was no coward, so he said, voice as commanding as he could manage – and from the look of it, he had been convincing.

“Turn around. Kneel. ”

Cowboy complied, and Illya took off the silk robe in one swift move, revealing the pale skin underneath. Illya remembered the gag in his pocket, yet deemed it not to be necessary. He took a tentative swing, the crop landing on Cowboy’s lower back. Cowboy did not flinch, and not a sound came out of his mouth. A reddish welt was now marring the pale back. Illya forced a smile on his lips, and hit five more times, a criss-crossing pattern that never drew blood. He really did not want to damage, but he could see Cowboy shiver, his eyes closed and his brow sweaty. Behind Illya, Victoria watched with hungry eyes.

Illya had counted twenty lashes, and for the last ones, Cowboy had let a few whimpers escape his lips, when the crop had touched an already red area. He had had enough. Cowboy had had more than enough, but that was another story. Victoria put a hand on Illya’s shoulder, and said, admiration in her voice:

“He is so well trained… I wish my husband was that silent and stoic.”

Illya gave her the crop back, not even looking at it. “With the amount I pay him, he’d better satisfy me.”

Victoria laughed then, a clear sound that sent ripples down her pale neck.

When Cowboy got up, Illya saw that he had been biting his lower lip all the time. He brushed his thumb against the abused lip, and said:

“You’ve been good,  _ Котёнок.” _

Cowboy smiled, eyes closed, leaning into the touch. “ _ Thank you, Sir.” _

Illya then turned to face Victoria. She was sipping what was left of her drink, seemingly happy with herself.

It was time to leave now. Illya had the sick feeling that he had overstepped his bounds. He wanted to punch Victoria to have forced him to whip Cowboy. He wanted to apologize to Cowboy. He said, as polite as he could:

“I must apologize Miss Vinciguerra, but it’s getting late and I feel quite tired. I think I’d better go back to my hotel.”

Victoria answered, perfect faked shock written all over her face.

“So early? It’s barely two in the morning!”

“We’ve had nine hours of flight today, you understand how tiresome it is.”

“Oh yes I do. I myself have been in Paris for the week, so I am fresh as a flower. Have a nice and fun night then, Mr Nazarov.”

At last. Illya could get away now. He knew that the more he stayed, the more risks he took.

“Thank you very much,” Illya bowed. “Have a nice night too Miss.”

She smiled sweetly in answer. Not even looking at him, Illya asked Cowboy to get dressed. He also took up the leash from the floor and, after a last polite bow and a kiss on the back of a perfumed hand, he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell writing this stuff is not my favourite? People who come to my fics usually come for the drama and the tragedy, not for the pr0n ^^  
> I still hope you enjoyed, and as always, thanks for reading and leaving me your thoughts and comments, I love reading them and always answer!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you to everybody who commented and left kudos, I love you! And now, here is the new chapter, enjoy!

It took an eternity to reach the door, walking slowly and naturally. It took too much time to go through the guards’ scrutiny again, and when he was at last outside, Illya could breathe again.

Yet it was not finished. They were not safe, no. They had to go back to the hotel. The note in Illya’s pocket was heavy, so heavy. It was high time they left, and sharing a look with Cowboy, who was again dressed correctly, Illya began to walk away from the mansion. He knew that he walked too fast to the point where he would meet the cab, too fast to be natural. He walked too fast, Cowboy lagging a few feet behind. Illya wanted to get away, to contact Mr Waverly and to debrief the mission. He felt tired and dirty, smelling sweat and alcohol on his clothes. In the back of his mind, he thought about Cowboy. It had to be so much worse for him. Illya wondered if Cowboy was as hurried to get back to the hotel as he was. He hoped so, and jumped into the cab, barking the hotel’s address.

When he heard the motor, felt the wheels move underneath him, Illya closed his eyes. Everything had turned out okay. They had succeeded.

Only when they were back into the hotel did Illya feel truly safe. He had wanted to debrief the mission with Cowboy as soon as possible, and maybe apologize, maybe not. He could not though, as Cowboy wanted most of all to take a shower. Illya did not blame him. Just before Cowboy disappeared into his room, he said to Illya:

“Besides, you have got to call Waverly. You can do it before we debrief.”

Illya nodded, even to a closed door. He went back in his room, not even bothering to get out of his atrocious clothes. He sat down on the bed and took the small radio from his suitcase.

The signal was quite good, and he heard his boss’s familiar voice on the other side:

“Hello Mr Kuryakin.”

“Hello Sir. The assignment is complete. We left the place half an hour ago, I’ve secured the appointment.”

“Oh, great, great. I had not expected anything else from the two of you. Well done.” From what Illya heard of his voice, Mr Waverly was indeed satisfied. He was right to be, Illya and Cowboy having done a good job.

“Thank you Sir.”

For a few seconds, Mr Waverly did not answer, as if lost in thoughts.

“By the way, is Cowboy nearby? It does seem to me that you are alone.”

“No Sir he is not here. He went back in his room to take a shower. I suppose he needed it.” Illya heard a chuckle at the end of the line. He went on: “Do you want to talk to him? I can–”

“No, no. By the way, I trust you both to be back in New York tomorrow, in my office. There is much work to do for the next part of this mission. I won’t need Cowboy then, but I want to see him to discuss one or two things. Our men in Paris will of course give you your plane tickets.”

“Very well Sir.”

“Until then, try to rest. Waverly out.”

The radio beeped for a few seconds, then it stopped emitting lights and creaking noises. Illya turned it off. All well and good. It would be difficult to rest correctly, but he was glad to leave Paris soon. Illya packed the radio back into his suitcase and served himself a tall glass of water. He yawned and splashed more water on his face. He looked at his watch, back where it belonged around his wrist. He realised that one hour had quickly passed. Illya slipped back in his own clothes. His suitcase was packed, he was tired. He wondered why Cowboy was taking so much time in the shower. He wanted to go to sleep and it was quarter past three in the morning. Illya paced the room. Half past three. He decided to knock on Cowboy’s door, but got no answer. He tried the handle, locked of course. That would never stop him, but he decided to knock again. Still no answer.

It took him a few minutes to open the door. Illya put the pin back in his pocket. Always have something to open a door with you. He walked silently inside the room. Cowboy’s suitcase was laying open on the bed. The clothes were all neatly folded. Illya saw the bathroom’s door, closed also. There was no noise inside, and he knocked on the door. Nothing again. This time though, the door was not locked, and Illya slightly opened it. He was met by a heavy, warm fog then. Smelling of sweet soap. He coughed. The bathroom was hot, too hot and too damp for his liking. Once he was able to see through the fog, Illya understood why Cowboy had not answered him.

He was fast asleep in the bathtub, half of his body covered by soapy water. Illya let his gaze wander up the long legs, the two arms that hanged limply out of the tub. Cowboy’s shoulders were underneath the water, and his head was resting on the porcelain rim. His eyes were closed, his features relaxed, but Illya could see that his skin was red from the heat. While watching Cowboy sleep, he felt a bitter bile rise in his throat. He too, wanted to relax in a hot bath and sleep. Yet he did not. He had his priorities straight, and so his number one priority was the mission. He had to wake Cowboy up, and would gladly do so. He shook Cowboy’s arm.

“Oi! Wake up.”

Cowboy mumbled something in his sleep, opening an eye. He must not have expected Illya to be here, since he jerked away, water splashing all around him. Illya stepped back too late, his clothes and face full of lukewarm soapy water.

“Ngh… sorry… guess I fell asleep.” Cowboy yawned. He did not look sorry at all, smiling with his eyes half-closed. He got up from the tub, naked and shameless, sending more water flying around. Illya tried his best not to look at Cowboy’s body while he dried himself with a fluffy towel. Cowboy knotted the towel around his waist, and said, rubbing sleep from his eyes:

“So… why did you wake me up? Breakfast’s ready?”

Illya growled. He was so tired that he had a hard time remembering what Cowboy had gone through that night, but he did not snap nor anything.  _ I suppose he needed it. _

“No. I called Mr Waverly. We need to debrief the mission now, it is past three o’clock.”

“Three o’clock? Oh I’m sorry I did not realize… I had not planned to fall asleep, but it was nonetheless good.” He smiled at Illya, quick and not at all apologetic. Cowboy left the bathroom then and walked straight to his room’s liquor cabinet to pour himself a drink. He said to Illya:

“I suppose you do not want one?”

Illya shook his head. Cowboy sat down on the bed and gestured at Illya to begin the debriefing.

“I called Mr Waverly–“

“You’ve already said so.”

“Let me finish then! I called him, and we have to go back to New York tomorrow. The appointment with Vinciguerra is in a week, in Italy. Mr Waverly told me that he would not need you then. Still, you have to see him at HQ with me.”

Cowboy nodded, slowly.

“Obviously… discard the goods when used. So, anyway, you did a great job Kuryakin. I hope Vinciguerra did not see right through you though.”

Illya frowned:

“I don’t think so. You did not notice anything, did you?”

Cowboy shook his head. He finished his glass and answered: “I was too busy entertaining her husband. No, Kuryakin. I did not notice anything. You can sleep on your two ears, everything ended up well. Even Miss Belmont did not cause trouble.”

Illya nodded. He had to admit that Cowboy was right. Everything had gone smoothly. In less than a day, he would be back home in New York. He bade Cowboy goodnight, closed the door behind him. The second part of the mission would be easier. He would be alone, but backed by real, experienced agents. It would not be in an overcrowded ballroom in Paris, which smelled of expensive perfume and alcohol with a whore as his partner. He would be back in his comfort zone.

Illya slipped between the covers of his bed after having secured the door. His gun was safe beneath his pillow.

He, unlike someone else, fell asleep quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned for the update on wednesday :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your love, I love reading and answering to your comments, and sorry for the sass :p There will be comfort, I promise. Soon. In a future chapter. ;)  
> Enjoy this one in the meantime!

The morning found Illya relatively hungry if not that well rested. His internal clock had woken him at seven, and the lights coming from under the curtains along with his busy mind had prevented him from falling back to sleep. He got up then and quickly showered. He was completely awake in half an hour, clothed and ready for breakfast. He rang the room service, black coffee and croissants.

Curious, waiting for his breakfast, Illya took a few steps into the corridor, listening to any noise that might have come from behind Cowboy’s doors. Yet, he heard nothing. Nothing at all. Now that he was rested and in a good mood, Illya thought that he needed to apologize to Cowboy, or at least to acknowledge his work.

But he could not do it now, while Cowboy was asleep. But he could not do it later, when they would both be awake and bickering. Illya stood facing the door.

_Working with you was… surprisingly okay._

Illya heard the elevator door open, and a butler from the hotel came out, holding a metal tray. Illya’s moment disappeared into thin air, and he went back into his room, waiting for his breakfast. It came a few seconds later, and the coffee smelled very good. Illya took care not to burn his lips, stirring the dark liquid with his tea spoon, and he noticed something under the napkin.

A plain, white envelope. He took it warily, trying to see inside if there was anything fishy. He held it in the light, but saw nothing. He opened it in a swift move, and took the contents in his hands. There were two plane tickets, the midday one, and a note, ‘ _Courtesy of A.W. Have a safe trip.’_ Illya smiled, though it was a tight-lipped one. Mr Waverly had a way with things, and a team of loyal men in every capital of every country of the world. Mr Waverly had eyes and ears everywhere, most of the time for the best. Illya drank his coffee, now warm. He would not do such a thing as dipping the croissant inside, and saved the pastry for after. It was good, one of the perks of being in France. While eating, Illya wondered if Cowboy was awake now. He looked at his watch, it was half past eight already. He hoped so, as they had to catch their plane in less than four hours. He drank the last drop of coffee and, leaving the tray on the bed table, took his suitcase. Illya left his room then, locking it behind him. He paused in front of Cowboy’s room, and knocked on the door. A muffled reply came from inside, something Illya interpreted as “I am awake.”

“Can I come in?” Illya asked, not really knowing why. In the back of his mind, he imagined that his presence would help Cowboy getting ready. He only had to wait a few seconds before Cowboy opened the door, entirely clothed. His hair was flawlessly done, and he was again the perfect picture of sly charm. The man Illya had met a few days before in a café, not the one that had crawled on the floor in front of him the night before. For a reason unknown to him, Illya found that he preferred last night’s Cowboy. He could not find respect in his heart for the man in front of him now. That man’s smile was too bright, too calculated. Illya frowned, remembered his manners and entered the room.

Cowboy’s suitcase was closed on his bed, his room perfectly tidied. There was not trace that he had eaten a breakfast, and he seemed ready to go. He took a few steps back inside the room, and looked at Illya as if waiting for something.

Illya, with his suitcase in his hand stood there, in the middle of the hotel room. “We have less than four hours to catch our plane. We should leave now.”

Cowboy nodded, and took his suitcase. “Let’s go then.” He smiled brightly and walked past Illya, out into the corridor. Illya huffed, how Cowboy could be ready without knowing when they would leave? He followed the American out of the room, and once the door locked, they took the elevator to the hotel’s reception.

They gave the keys back, Cowboy chatting uselessly with the girl working there, talking in strongly accented French and smiling too bright and white.

“Could we go, now?” Illya asked, visibly annoyed by Cowboy’s flirting.

Cowboy waved a hand to the receptionist, winked and followed Illya out. They were silent on their way to the airport, Illya still annoyed and Cowboy looking through the dark window. Illya did not know if Cowboy was genuinely interested in French architecture, or if he was deliberately ignoring him. Did he care?

When they arrived to the airport, Illya was mostly certain that he did not care. They still had two hours and a half to wait before their plane was scheduled to take off, and they were busy ignoring each other.

Once in the plane Illya saw Cowboy toss and turn to sleep without succeeding. The American then started to flirt with a pretty waitress, and in the end got himself a free drink and sandwich. The waitress was blushing, Cowboy grinning like a cat that got both the cream and the canary.

Illya was bored for nine hours, bored and angry. Cowboy was more relaxed since he had drunk, and he was dozing in his seat.

“Do you think he will need anything when he wakes up?” The waitress asked Illya once Cowboy was asleep.

Illya did not answer, only glared as she scurried away, cheeks red. Illya was deeply annoyed, and only wished for the plane to land, as soon as possible.

When New York was finally coming closer and closer as the plane got down, Illya was relieved. Cowboy slowly woke up as the plane landed, stretching his arms and yawning. He smiled at Illya, who frowned. They walked through the airport side by side, not talking, waiting for the jetlag to catch them. Outside, they were met by the same chauffeur who had driven them to the safe house. They were directly taken to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, where Mr Waverly was waiting for them, and Illya could not wait to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, sorry this one was a little short, next one on Sunday! Thank you again for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter ~ Enjoy!  
> (Thank you all for reading and showing love!)

Mr Waverly was sitting behind his desk, face set in a calm, satisfied mask as Illya and Cowboy went in. He greeted them warmly, and gestured to the seats in front of the desk. Illya and Cowboy sat down.

“Well, I must congratulate the two of you. You make quite a team.”

Both Illya and Cowboy thanked him, naturally and in perfect unison.

“The job you did in Paris was not an easy one, and you did remarkably well. Our troops in Italy are already organising themselves to be ready for the day of the appointment. You are certain that none of you were compromised?”

“We are, Sir,” answered Illya.

Mr Waverly smiled then, more sincere. He flicked through a few files, then said, looking at Cowboy:

“Of course, as we discussed before, I will only need Mr Kuryakin for the next part. I have to thank you again for accepting to lend us a hand old boy.”

“I had no choice Sir.” Cowboy sighed, “I suppose my debt is still not repaid.”

“Of course not. You can go, if I ever need you…”

Cowboy nodded, “Yes Sir.” He got up, looked at Illya, put a hand on his shoulder. “Working with you was not as terrible as I thought it would be Kuryakin.”

He left the room swiftly then, without giving Illya the time to answer. Mr Waverly did not say anything then, studying Illya’s face. In the end, Illya had not even had a kind word for Cowboy. He had no time to dwell on potential regrets though, as Mr Waverly spoke again:

“He is quite a man, is he not?”

Illya did not know what to answer. The first sentences that came to his mind were ‘I did not even learn his real name’ and ‘How did he come to be indebted to you so heavily that he could not refuse such a job?’ Yet Illya did not ask any of those questions. He only asked, his voice a little bit unfamiliar to him:

“Sir, if I may ask… what will become of Cowboy?”

Waverly did not answer. The question puzzled him, he must not have imagined that Illya would have come to care. He tidied a few papers on his desk, then said:

“He will get back to his life, and we to ours. As I said, he is still indebted to me–”

“After all that he’s done?!”

“Yes Mr Kuryakin. His debt runs very deep. Maybe I will need his services again, maybe not. Anyway, let’s change the subject. I still need to work a little bit on your mission, so you’d better rest for today. I’ll call you to brief you the day after tomorrow. If you don’t have anything to ask…”

“No Sir.” Illya did not have anything to ask, since Mr Waverly did not want to answer the ones he got.

“Then you’re free to go.”

Illya got up from his chair, but before he had time to open the door, Mr Waverly added:

“Oh, by the way Mr Kuryakin… Miss Teller is scheduled to come back from her own mission this evening. She completed it brilliantly.”

“I’m sure she did,” answered Illya, his hand on the door’s handle. A rare smile graced his lips.

“And I am sure the two of you look forward to be reunited.”

“Yes Sir. We do.” Illya left the office then, finding himself in an empty, grey corridor. He walked fast, trying to leave the Headquarters as quickly as possible. He wanted fresh air. Yet, when he was back in the well-known streets of New York, Illya could not shake the feeling of wrong that plagued his mind. Gaby was not due home before a few hours … it gave him time. He would not search Cowboy, no. The man was a pain in the ass, too loud, too bright. Yet, dismissing him like that was wrong. Cowboy was not, as he had coined himself, used goods. Stupidly, Illya looked around in the streets, very much searching for the brunette’s silhouette. As his ill luck would have it, none of the men sitting in the nearby cafés, going in or coming out of shops were Cowboy. He was nowhere to be seen. Illya imagined that once out of UNCLE headquarters, Cowboy would have called a taxi right away, going straight home. Back to his flat, that Illya imagined to be lavish, with a big bed and a bathtub, fancy jazz musing playing in the background. Illya imagined Cowboy taking off his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt, taking a big tumbler of brandy before settling on his couch to relax, maybe with a magazine, maybe only enjoying the music and the view his huge windows had to offer of New York.

Illya shook his head. What was he thinking, getting lost in his thoughts like that? He could have been followed, attacked, and he would not have noticed anything. He swore under his breath. How stupid of him. Illya then took several wrong turns on purpose, stopping in a flower shop to buy flowers. When he was mostly sure that he would have noticed any potential followers, Illya went back to the flat he shared with Gaby. It was as he had left it several days ago, his used cup of coffee still in the sink, the curtains drawn and the bed neatly made. Always careful, he checked twice for bugs, but found none.

He took off his jacket then, his shoes too. He put the flowers in a vase on the living room table. Gaby would like them… Now it was time to rest. He looked inside the kitchen’s cupboard, but he was not hungry. Jetlag always did that. He locked every entrance again, setting the alarms, then fell on his bed face forward. God he was tired. So tired. He fell asleep then, a dreamless sleep that was only disturbed when a petite brunette, freshly back from Brazil tiptoed into his room to draw the covers up to his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, see you Wednesday!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Did i tell you how much i enjoyed reading your comments and how happy they made me? Because you outdid yourselves this week inlove you so so much! And i am slightly feeling guilty for frustrating you :p)
> 
> Here’s the chapter!

Illya woke up when he heard Gaby walk out of his room. He opened his eyes, feeling still sleepy. It would take some days to sleep the jetlag off. He yawned, looked at his watch. It was seven in the morning. More awake by the minute, he now smelled coffee from the kitchen. He got up, splashed water on his face. He was looking forward to see Gaby again so much.

Illya found her in the kitchen, reading the day’s paper with a steaming cup of coffee. The moment Gaby heard him come in, she got up from her chair, the paper still in her hand and the coffee cup forgotten on the table. They hugged, the height difference still awkward between them, yet not bothering them at all. Gaby always said that Illya was stiff when hugged. It was true that he did not like contact much. To annoy him, Gaby kissed him on the cheek before pulling back.

“Welcome back,” she said, smiling.

“Welcome back,” Illya answered. Gaby sat back on her chair, and Illya helped himself to a cup of coffee before sitting down too.

“So,” went on Gaby, slowly drinking her coffee, “how was Paris?”

Illya drank a bit before answering. “It was an easy mission. Got in contact with the Vinciguerra heiress.”

Gaby whistled, both admiring and mocking. “Should I be jealous?”

Illya huffed. “Poison, that woman. Mr Waverly had partnered me with… an outsider.” Illya did not know why he had hesitated, he should have said prostitute, no? Somehow, he did not feel right. The information though, seemed to interest Gaby.

“Not from U.N.C.L.E.? Why?”

Illya played with his cup before answering:

“I had to meet Vinciguerra during a party, a S&M party. I needed to bring a partner and Mr Waverly thought… Well that man was a pro.”

“Really? Oh my… and you who hate this kind of mission… Was the man another agent then? CIA or something?”

“No. He is not an agent, but an acquaintance of Mr Waverly’s. He trusts him, so I had no choice but to trust him myself. But we managed quite well.”

Gaby nodded. She must have noticed that Illya had not told her everything, but she did not press, as Illya asked her how her trip to Brazil had been.

For long minutes then, they talked about arm smugglers and jungles. When they had finished their breakfast, Gaby went into the living room to work on her report. Illya tried to settle down with a book, but he was not able to relax. He wanted to find more about Cowboy, now that he thought about it. At least learn his real name. Maybe his past, a reason to respect him?

Illya spent most of the morning doing nothing, not really fidgeting – He did not fidget, he never did– but visibly restless. Gaby noticed it, often lifting her eyes from her report.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“I can hear your gears creaking over my own thoughts. Tell me.”

“I was thinking about the man I worked with in Paris.”

Gaby giggled. “You miss him?”

“No. I don’t think that Mr Waverly was correct with him. He dismissed him with no thank you, nothing.”

“If they know each other, it may be normal for them.”

Illya nodded, dubious. He had seen Cowboy’s lack of reaction, but that did not mean anything. _ Used goods.  _ He heard Gaby get up from her desk and sit down beside him on the couch.

“You are all furrowed… like an angry lion. You did not tell me everything.”

Illya sighed, and gave up. He told Gaby the whole story. How he disliked those missions and that they only had had a few days to get acquainted and learn to work together. He told Gaby how they had worked, what Cowboy had done… That he would maybe like to see him again.

“You liked working with him,” asserted Gaby.

“No,” answered Illya. “I do not even like him.”

“Then why do you want to see him again?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got the feeling that… I treated him wrong. Mr Waverly treated him wrong.”

Gaby smiled and shifted on the couch to sit closer to Illya. She put an arm around his shoulders, and pecked Illya on the cheek. She got up then, laughing, and said:

“Go to his place then!”

“What would I do?” Illya asked, not exactly expecting an answer nor wanting one.

“How do you want me to know? You could thank him! Tell his he did a good job! Even apologize!” She disappeared in her room then, still laughing.

“… I don’t even know where he lives,” finished Illya to himself. He looked at his hands. Yes, he wanted to apologize. He had at least two days of rest before going back to his mission. It was more than enough time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading, see you Sunday!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the love you showed, and can you believe it is the 10th chapter? Neither can I, I sometimes get the feeling that this fic is endless! :p  
> Enjoy!

Illya sat on the couch for several minutes, motionless. He really wanted to see Cowboy again, even if was not sure at all what he would say. As he had said to Gaby, he had also no idea how to reach Cowboy. If he searched enough in the Headquarters, he might be able to find his address, a phone number. It would be quite difficult to find the information without Mr Waverly noticing. Illya did not want Mr Waverly to notice. He had a bad feeling in his stomach, something that told him to be wary of Mr Waverly. He should not… he had to trust his boss and the decisions taken. It would have been for the greater good… Why was Illya so bent on seeing Cowboy again? He did not like him, and was now quite certain that seeing the American again would fuel his anger. Illya was not used to act so impulsively. Yet, shouting a goodbye to Gaby, he put on his jacket and left the flat.

He took the usual route for U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, wondering all the way why he was doing it. Why, Illya, why?

He stopped asking himself why when he was in front of the secretary in HQ. The girl there – Illya never remembered the names– smiled at him, awaiting his request.

“I need somebody’s address, if you please.”

“Sure Mr Kuryakin. Tell me the name of the person…”

“I don’t know. Mr Waverly did not tell me…” Now he looked like a fool. He had come here without thinking, his head stuck up on some cloud where everything was easy. Fool.

The secretary lightly tapped her pen against the surface of her desk.

“I cannot yet read thoughts Mr Kuryakin. Mr Waverly must have at least given you a codename.”

“Yes, yes. His codename was Cowboy.” He felt even more ridiculous giving the codename. It felt debasing somehow, but even in his head, he had no other name to call his mysterious partner. ‘The whore’ was definitely  _ not  _ a name.

“There we are,” answered the secretary. She put on her glasses and smiled again, “Cowboy… Cowboy… Yes! I have him!” She took a card from a big box and gave it to Illya. “There’s not much, but I hope it is enough.”

Illya thanked her and looked at the card. There was no real name on it, only the mention [unspecified/ not needed]. No phone number, no address. A series of numbers Illya could not understand, and a high security clearing rating. As high as the Enforcement Agents’. He read the card again. No address. No mail box. Nothing. It was as if the man did not exist. Illya wanted to swear, to crush the card, but he did nothing. Nothing but giving it back to the secretary, growling his thanks.

She put the card back where it belonged, and Illya left the room. Following his instincts, he walked to his office, and sat behind his desk. He did not like it, not being able to find Cowboy.

He sat brooding for a few minutes until the communicator on his desk beeped. He pushed the button and spoke:

“Kuryakin here.”

“Ah, Mr Kuryakin.” It was Mr Waverly. “I heard you were there. Would you mind coming to my office?”

Illya sighed silently. “Yes. Coming right away Sir. Kuryakin out.”

Illya sighed again. He hoped that Mr Waverly did not know that he had come here to find information about Cowboy.

When Illya went in Mr Waverly’s office, his boss was sitting behind his desk, arms crossed. He got up when he saw Illya, and started speaking:

“I was thinking about calling you at home today, you know. I am quite lucky then, that you decided to come here.”

Illya nodded. So Mr Waverly did not know why he was here… or he did not tell Illya. Both were possible. Mr Waverly went on:

“Well, I did not call you here to make small talk. We have a problem.” He looked straight into Illya’s eyes. “Miss Vinciguerra’s security has gone up since this morning. She has all her men on duty and seem extra careful. The same goes for Miss Belmont.”

“Do we know why? May I have been–”

Mr Waverly shook his head. “We have no idea why, and that is our main problem. It could jeopardize the whole mission if Vinciguerra comes to guess that you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent.”

“Yes.”

“You will have to be extra careful then, and I’ve decided to plan your flight to Rome earlier than scheduled. You leave at noon, and a man there will take you to your hotel near the rendezvous point. It is very important that Vinciguerra’s men see you there, they have to believe your story.”

“This afternoon? Okay Sir.”

“In this case, you will find all the information you need. Read it here, and I suppose you’ll have enough time to say goodbye to Gaby. I’m sorry the two of you did not have more time together, but you understand how dire the situation is.”

Illya nodded again. He understood, of course. All too well.

“The aim of the mission stays the same. You’ll find a suitcase in your office with all the necessary material and clothes, and you’ll have back up in Italy. Now, go. Each minute is important.”

“Yes Sir.”

Illya and Mr Waverly shook hands, “Good luck Mr Kuryakin.” Illya left the office and walked back to his own. On his desk, as expected, he found the files about the mission. He was not even glad that Mr Waverly did not know about Cowboy. He was only thinking about the mission now, and the risks. It was all too probable that Vinciguerra or Belmont had realised who he was, and he did not want to think about the consequences of such a possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the chapter, see you on Wednesday, I love you all <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 is here! :D I can't say how happy reading all of your comments make me, and I hope so so much that the ending won't disappoint you... but we're only at 1/5 of the fic, so... many things can still happen. :p

On his plane to Rome, Illya tried not to worry too much about the mission. He could be very well flying into a trap, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt the adrenaline flowing through his veins, keeping him awake during endless hours of flight.

When he landed in Rome at about eight o’clock in the evening, legs stiff, and quite worried for the mission, he tried not to stick out too much. He was wearing dark sunglasses and was drinking a coffee, looking at the crowded airport and searching for the agent that was supposed to take him to the provincial small town where his hotel was.

Illya waited half an hour, no one. An hour, still nobody. He was getting restless, and wanted to contact Mr Waverly. There must have been something wrong…

Maybe Vinciguerra had found a way to know who Illya was, and she had… no. Illya was logical and pragmatic. There was no way that the mission was compromised without Mr Waverly knowing it. Illya asked for another coffee.

He waited one hour more, not looking compulsively at his watch. Not looking suspicious… he could have been waiting for his plane, or for somebody.

Finally, when the sun had entirely disappeared below the Italian sky and given way to a dark night, Illya got up from his seat. It was clear now, his contact would not come. He walked to the parking lot, and found himself quite lucky. There were indeed a few taxis still waiting, empty. He gestured to the first one, and showed him the paper onto which Mr Waverly had written the address of the town.

“Can you drive me there?” Illya asked, regretting yet again that he did not speak many foreign languages… Well, a taxi driver in an airport spoke English, it was only logical.

“It’s a long way Sir. It will cost much,” answered the driver in heavily accented English.

“I have money,” asserted Illya.

The taxi driver shrugged and opened his door. He took Illya’s suitcase and put it in the trunk of the car before opening the backseat’s door, gesturing for Illya to enter. Illya complied, thanked the driver and they left the airport.

The Italian landscape was all shadows and darker spots in the night, and the purr of the cab’s motor lulled Illya to sleep. Several times, he had to pinch himself not to fall into deep slumber. He did not want to let his guard down. The driver was respectful, or afraid of Illya’s not very amiable facial expression, and he did not talk more than necessary. Talking may have helped Illya to stay awake, but he despised small talk to no end. In fact, he was quite glad to be sitting alone in the taxi. For a split second, Illya imagined the trip with Cowboy by his side.

The American would have certainly opened the window to taste the Italian cold air, one arm against the window. He would lean against his seat, ever relaxed, legs crossed and taking all the space. This would infuriate Illya, who would not answer Cowboy’s attempts at fake flirt or heartfelt sass. Cowboy would look at him from behind useless sunglasses and smile before falling asleep while Illya would fidget in his own seat.

Would it be that bad? Illya sighed. Yes and no. How could he… miss, yes the word was miss, someone so infuriating? Cowboy would have been useless in this mission, he was not discrete, he was not careful… was he? Illya sighed again. He wanted to be in his hotel. He wanted to contact Mr Waverly and have his questions finally answered. He longed to ask the driver, like a child would have done, ‘How long until we arrive?’

How long?

Despite his struggle, Illya fell asleep. The driver did not notice, and if he did, he did not care. He lit another smoke, and, holding the wheel with only one hand, drove through Italy all night long.

When Illya woke up, they were still driving. The car was slaloming on small country roads, and from the mountains around them, Illya guessed that they had driven northwards, to the Alps.

The driver turned his head to look at Illya:

“We are there in some minutes.”

“Thanks.” Illya took his suitcase and carefully opened it. As Mr Waverly had promised, there was everything he could need, which meant much more money than what had been decided for the deal with Vinciguerra. Everything was in dollars though…

When the taxi stopped in a small town, which looked like a postcard cliché, with flowers at the windows and old people enjoying the morning air outside, Illya felt relieved. There was only one hotel in town, his one. It was not cheap by any means, but not the usual luxuries.

He gave a wad to the driver, “Is this enough?”

When the driver saw the green colour of the money, he smiled, not even counting. “Sure.” He left then, wishing Illya a good stay.

Illya was all alone in the town’s square, paved of white stones. All around the town, the Alps. There was a fountain in the middle of the square, and Illya saw some townsfolk watching him through their windows. Watching the newcomer. He checked his watch without remembering the time, and went in the hotel. He was quite glad to exchange the outside’s blue sky and prying eyes for the reception of the hotel. A woman welcomed him, her English way better than Illya’s Italian. Why had Mr Waverly chosen him for this mission again? He was as good as lost in the Italian Alps, his mission maybe already over and no way of communicating with the people around.

“Good morning sir, did you have a reservation?”

“Yes. Mr Nazarov.”

“Nazarov… you’re in room 8, on the first floor, with a view of the square. Here are your keys. We serve the breakfast between 6 and 9 in the morning.”

“Thank you very much.” Having heard of breakfast, Illya now realised he was famished. He had not eaten since… yesterday at noon. A tasteless sandwich in New York’s airport. He asked, “Can I have a breakfast in my room?”

The woman nodded and rang a bell.

“It will be ready in ten minutes.”

Illya thanked her and took the stairs to his room. He opened the door, threw his suitcase on the neatly made bed and checked for bugs. Nothing… this was surprisingly good. Nothing under the sheets nor in the tiny washroom. He looked through the curtains at the town. It was a small town, near the Swiss border, in Lombardy. He ignored that the Vinciguerra family had a hideout in this region. To be honest, there were a lot of things he ignored about them.

Somebody knocked on his door. He told them to enter, and a girl –how old was she again, ten? Twelve? – gave him a tray with a continental breakfast. She scurried away, closing the door behind her, and Illya smiled at the smell of coffee.

There were two things left to do now: eat and call Mr Waverly.

 

Illya burned his lips on the coffee. It felt good, too good. It was dark and strong, the kind most people in the USA despised. He liked it like that. The food was also not bad and Illya ate several mouthfuls before taking his radio out of the suitcase.

He dialled Mr Waverly in New York, and got an answer almost immediately. His boss’s voice seemed tired “Good morning Mr Kuryakin. Are you well?”

“Yes Sir. Nobody was waiting for me yesterday.” Illya had decided to go straight to the point. He did not feel safe enough to lose time.

“I know. I am sorry. We had had a problem yesterday.” Mr Waverly was even more tired if possible.

“A problem?” Was the mission over? Were Vinciguerra’s men already on Illya’s tail, in town?

“Yes. The Vinciguerra’s security systems have gone even higher than before. We have tried all of our contacts, no go. They might be getting ready for war… attacking someone or defending themselves? I don’t know. We needed all of our men in Italy on this matter so…”

“Yes, I understand.” This did not look good. Illya had known it since the beginning.

“You were able to find your way here in the end, so all is well. I always knew that you would make it.” Mr Waverly seemed relieved. Illya was not relieved at all, on the other hand. Mr Waverly went on, changing subjects: “So, how do you find Lombardy?”

“The Alps are beautiful Sir.” Illya had not wanted to change the conversation’s subject. He was in the eye of the brewing storm, and he needed information. He needed more than Mr Waverly’s riddles. Luckily for him, he got more:

“You’re just North-West of the main city, Sondrio. The address of your rendezvous is an even smaller location more to the east, in the ‘comune’ Ponte in Valtellina. Logically, Vinciguerra’s people have been knowing you were here since you arrived in Rome, so they will find you.”

“That was supposed to comfort me?” Illya could not help it if he sounded harsh. He felt as if the mission was slowly slipping out of his control, and he hated it.

“Yes. They could have done something to you earlier if they had doubted your loyalties. I do think that you are safe for the moment, so keep the mask up. We stay in contact as much as possible.”

Illya nodded. It was useless, Mr Waverly could not see him. He drank another mouthful of coffee, and finally answered his boss. “What should I do then?”

“How could I know? You are a Russian millionaire, and a fascist. Go for a hike in the mountains. Waverly out.”

Illya listened to the dial for a few seconds, trying to fill the room’s silence. He packed his radio back in his suitcase. He was worried and in a bad mood. Maybe Mr Waverly was right, and the best thing to do was to take a little walk around. Illya finished his breakfast, and changed clothes. White again, with better shoes for walking and yet another ugly hat.

He checked that the small U.N.C.L.E. bugs in his lapel, watch and shoe were in place and working, took a map of the region from his suitcase and left, as Mr Waverly had suggested, for a walk in the nearby mountains.

He brought the tray down on his way out of the hotel. He may have been a fascist and a millionaire, but he was well-mannered.

He left the hotel, and looked around. He would not open his map yet, and simply walked down the main street. There was a grocery shop open, some other people walking the streets but he seemed to be the only tourist. Illya finally found a small road that left the town and went up into the Alps. He walked on the side of the road, looking ahead but not enjoying the landscape.

All Illya wanted was for the mission to be over. Before leaving for Rome, he had barely had the time to kiss Gaby goodbye before being thrown out of their flat. He had not even found the time to sleep correctly and rest from the jet lag of his flight from Paris. He still felt as if he was not the right man for this mission. This called for skills in diplomacy, politics… well. He knew he was just the bait. The colourful, sparkling fly that kept the fish busy until the net was enclosing them. Illya did not like to play the bait much, and he wondered if the other agents would be able to cover him and fulfil their part of the mission if the Vinciguerras were standing at the ready. He could very well be trapped and done for without knowing it. He had a few explosives in his suitcase, his gun and some ammo… enough to get away? He hoped so.

Lost in his thoughts, Illya walked aimlessly until he began to feel thirsty. He had not brought anything with him, and was regretting now. He looked at his watch. Noon was ticking by, time to return to the hotel. Maybe he would buy something to eat at the grocery store… or buy himself a drink in a café. There was always a café in those small towns. He walked faster on his way back than he had when leaving the town.

Maybe he would find a sports car parked in front of the hotel, someone he knew all too well leaning outside of the car, a smoke in hand. Waiting for him.

 

Illya could not stop walking. If he did, it would be suspicious. He passed the grocery shop by, did not stop. His eyes were fixed on the car, on the man waiting.

So they had found him.

It could be the end of all things. Maybe not. Mr Waverly had said that from the look of it, Illya’s cover was still intact. He felt a shiver down his spine as he walked closer to the car. Not fear, but anticipation.

“Mr Nazarov!” The man shouted, throwing his cigarette away. “The receptionist of your hotel told me you had arrived early in the morning… I thought you would have stayed here.”

“Mr Vicinguerra.” They clasped hands, Illya had slipped naturally into his role. He had polite surprise written on his face. “I was not expecting to see you so soon, and this place is beautiful. I wanted to get closer to the mountains…”

Alexander Vinciguerra laughed, and answered: “I can understand! I myself prefer Rome, you know the city life, but a little stay in the country is never harmful.”

That was enough small talk for Illya. He wanted to know why Vinciguerra was here, and he wanted to know it now. Illya was also certain that Alexander had not come him to chat under the sun. They looked each other in the eye and Illya said with the gesture of the hand:

“May I invite you to a drink?”

“I would be very pleased,” answered Alexander. “I know a place here that will be perfect.”

Alexander then whispered a few words in Italian to his chauffeur, who nodded.

Illya had of course not offered the drink out of the goodness of his heart and Alexander knew it. It was a play of politeness, the both of them waiting for the right moment to begin. To begin what they both had come here to do… well. That was Illya’s main problem. Alexander was not supposed to come here, not today!

Illya guessed that it had to do with the security problems that Mr Waverly had spoken about. It did not look like a trap… Illya hoped it was not the case. He did not like to have fights in the open like this. There were too many witnesses.

“Well, shall we proceed?” asked Alexander, breaking in Illya’s thoughts.

“Oh yes, of course, lead the way,” answered Illya.

Alexander gestured for Illya to follow, and after taking a few turns left and right into many small and smaller streets, they happened upon a small café. It did not look like the usual touristic establishment, and it was empty, save for a bartender and an older man who was nursing a beer at a table outside.

They went in the café, and Alexander gestured to the bartender, who opened a side door.

“After you,” said Alexander, and Illya had no choice but to comply. It was a smaller room, with no windows. There was a table in the centre and a few chairs. Alexander sat down, Illya too. They waited a few seconds and the bartender brought a tray in, with an unopened bottle and two glasses. He left, closing the door behind him. Without speaking, Alexander uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses.

Illya was almost certain that the drink was drugged, yet he took the offered glass. He was now also certain that half of the town, if not all of it, worked for the Vinciguerras. Maybe that was just paranoia. Maybe he was paranoiac, but Illya knew that if something untoward was to happen, he was very likely to have the upper hand in a fight against Alexander. The man may have had brawns, but Illya’s combat skills were way better. He had of course never tested them against Alexander, but he knew it. It was an unwavering certainty.

Oh, there was also the possibility that the bartender was working for Alexander, and armed. He would have called other men from the town… all ready to barge into the room if they heard the sound of a fight. Illya had of course his gun with him. He may not have the superiority of number, but he could use the table as a shield… besides he was a pretty good shot.

Illya smiled internally. Yes, he was in control of the situation. He drank from the glass. Sweet wine, most certainly typical of this region. Illya made an appreciative hum. Alexander smiled, drank too and made a toasting gesture. Yet his smile soon disappeared. He locked eyes with Illya and said:

“I know it might seem strange to you Mr Nazarov, that I came to see you today.”

It seemed strange to Illya that he had come, full stop. Having the party still in mind, it was hard for Illya to reconcile the two Alexanders. The submissive and the second in command of a crime empire. The man on his knees before random strangers, yearning to be punished by his wife and her friends, and this man here, supposedly in control, all powerful.

Also, why had Victoria not sent some faceless man to deal with Illya? Why risking her husband’s life?

“Quite. I was not expecting you, as I said… nor actually anybody else so soon.” This was true. Even if he wanted the mission to be over, Illya admitted that he had at least hoped for a day of rest. Now that the board was in place, it was time to play.

Alexander nodded. He drank his glass in one gulp and crossed his fingers in front of him, eyes still locked on Illya.

“Let’s get straight to the point then. We have a problem.”

 

“Let’s get straight to the point then. We have a problem.”

When he heard Alexander, Illya wanted to answer something like ‘Is that why you came?’ but he said no such thing, looking surprised, the perfect mask to encourage Alexander to go on.

“There has been a supposed security breach you see.”

“Nothing too dire I hope,” answered Illya, still looking shocked. Those were bad news, were they not? And unless Alexander liked to play with his preys like a cat did, then Mr Waverly was right. Illya was not yet suspected… Could he be this lucky?

“No… maybe.” Alexander was now playing with his glass. In control of the situation but searching for his words. “During the party… Miss Belmont saw someone suspicious that could have eavesdropped on a few conversations. She apprehended the threat very soon, but she told most of her guests to be extremely careful.”

Illya looked thoughtful, and he truly was puzzled. Were there other agents on a mission that night? Someone Mr Waverly had not included in his plans… a threat to both U.N.C.L.E. and the crime organisations maybe? It could not be the French secret services… this was a possibility. Anyway, whatever Illya’s guesses may have been, he preferred to let Alexander think he had the upper hand. This way, he would give more information.

“I understand.” Illya also began to think of a way to contact Mr Waverly as soon as possible. What he had learned would be no doubt very useful for U.N.C.L.E., as it explained the problems onto which the other agents had stumbled.

“You know, with  _ the _ project nearly completed, we cannot risk some mole inside. So we are being careful.”

“Miss Belmont did not tell you who this person may work for?” Illya had not really thought before asking the question. He was curious, but did not want to seem nosy. It could not be another U.N.C.L.E. agent. No it could not… yet if Alexander told him some more information… Well, if Illya had given him time…

“No. She is quite secretive. Or unsure. She only told Victoria that it meant danger, and those two… If Victoria knew she would not have told me. She likes to handle things on her own.”

Illya nodded. He could not answer to Alexander, and there were unsaid sentences between them. He waited. Waited, until Alexander poured himself a new glass and said:

“For the moment, as infuriating as it is, we cannot really do anything. My wife is waiting for Miss Belmont to tell here if there is a real threat or if she has… thwarted it.” Illya heard the innuendo behind the way Alexander had smiled the last two words. Whoever was the threat, that person had better to get away quickly from Miss Belmont’s claws.

“Yes. It is quite logical.”

“So you understand that… we may have to postpone our deal.”

No. That would not do at all. Illya did not plan to spend the next three months in Italy waiting for fearful crime empire to decide if they were safe enough to fall into a trap.

“I do.”

Alexander smiled, almost predatory.

“I understand also that you may not want to stay here indefinitely.”

Illya felt that there was more to it. Alexander was trying to get to a point, but he was true to his reputation, and not at all a diplomat. Illya wondered again why Victoria had not sent someone else in his stead. He was not her only lieutenant, Illya knew it. Maybe she had thought that Illya would more easily trust somebody he had already met. That was forgetting the circumstances in which Illya and Alexander had met. Still, Illya tried to forget them as he worked on a believable answer:

“Indeed. My estate needs management, and–” and I did not plan for this mission to be this complicated.

Illya had no time to finish his sentence as Alexander cut him with a dismissive move of the hand. Arrogant bastard. Illya silently gritted his teeth.

“Yes. We are securing right now a base nearby. I came to ask you if you would like to move there. It may be better for your own security.”

“I am not sure…” Illya had of course realized that he had no choice. It was not an invitation and Illya admitted that he would rather go into the lion’s den on his own volition than in the trunk of a sports car. “Very well I accept.”

Alexander smiled warmly, and clapped his hands.

“Fine, fine! I knew you were a reasonable man Mr Nazarov.” He got up from his chair and shook Illya’s hand. “I will have a man drive you there this evening. I am afraid that we will not see each other there, I have pressing matters to deal with in Genoa.”

“In front of the hotel?”

“Yes, of course. Be ready for seven pm.” Alexander looked to self-satisfied of his victory to Illya’s liking, and the Russian’s fists hitched to hit the rich smug bastard. Instead, he smiled what he hoped to be a polite smile, not tight or forced at all.

“I will.”

The conversation had been smoother than what Illya had imagined. It may still be one big web enclosing him, but now he did not believe it anymore. If he was right, all was He hoped that he would have time to contact Mr Waverly before Vinciguerra’s henchman’s arrival. His mind was already planning, organizing his afternoon while he left the café with Alexander. He did not look around him, the small gestures and looks he might have otherwise noticed.

He shook hands again with Alexander, and while the red car sped up through the town, Illya went back to his room in the hotel. There was much to do, and very little time.

Illy was tired. He had not realized how much until he saw the bed in his room. It was a result of the jetlag and his walk, and the conversation with Alexander must not have helped at all. He shook his head. There were more pressing matters than sleeping now, such as calling Mr Waverly. Also, checked for potential new bugs. Even if the room seemed untouched, Illya had no proof that Alexander had not sent men in his room during their talk. Luckily Illya found nothing, and sitting on the bed –so soft, and he was so tired- he took the radio out of his suitcase.

He asked for Mr Waverly, but only got the secretary. So his boss had a meeting of the upmost importance. Was that mission not important then? Illya swallowed his frustration and gave a message to the secretary. He summed up the conversation he had had with Alexander. He would keep the U.N.C.L.E. bugs with him, and with enough luck nobody would notice them. The secretary would deliver the message as soon as possible, and Illya warned her again that it was really important. More than what he supposed to be an administrative meeting.

Once he put an end to the conversation, Illya realized that he could not leave the radio in his suitcase, as Vinciguerra’s men would most likely check it if he was to go to one of their bases. He had to hide it somewhere, and he would collect it later. He put the radio under the bed to see if he could camouflage it. It was too obvious a choice, and he hid it in the washroom’s cupboard. It would do for now. Illya looked at his watch… only half past one. He may had the time for a small nap before seven. Only ten or twenty minutes. Then, he would wake up and think about a strategy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, stay tuned for the next one!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who commented, I love you so much for supporting this fic!  
> I hope you will enjoy this chapter ;)

When Illya woke up, he did not open his eyes at once. He felt strangely sleepy, his mind foggy. He tried to stretch his arms, but found something to his left that should not have been there. He tentatively touched it. It was hard and soft at the same time, like the backrest of a leather sofa. He was most probably dreaming. He groaned and turned, trying to fall back asleep. Something in the back of his eyes, the back of his mind, prevented him from opening his lids. The backrest of a sofa…? He jumped up, eyes open.

He was on a sofa. This was not right. A part of Illya’s mind wanted to panic. Yet another part of his mind, more dominant, sent icy water in his veins. He would not panic, he would act naturally and think before acting. No shoes, no jacket. Had he been kidnapped? It was only logical. His drink had been drugged then. He should have guessed it. He had guessed it, but it had not been useful. If he had been kidnapped, well, it was the Vinciguerras. It matched with the bright ceiling, the white sofa, made of expensive leather… and the smiling blonde hovering above him.

Before making eye contact with Victoria, Illya quickly calculated his chances. Eighty that his cover was blown. Ten that he had been kidnapped to get to the base safely. Ten that it was something else entirely.

“You took your time to wake up…” cooed Victoria after a few seconds of silence and smiling.

Illya yawned, discreet but not so polite.

“I had planned to wake up in my hotel room, Miss Vinciguerra.”

She laughed then, like twisted crystal falling on the floor’s tiles.

“Alexander has warned you that we would transfer you to a safe house.”

“Yes. He had not given me all the details though.” Illya sat up on the couch. He could feel, on the tip of his fingers, the drugs’ effects wearing off.

“You could have guessed that we would not take any risks, it is part of the job.”

It was only logical… they would not let him know the location of the base, nor the route that lead to it. They had even taken off his shoes. Illya was worried that they might have found the transponder. He looked at his wrist from the corner of his eye. Much to his relief, his watch was still there. He looked at Victoria, setting his face in a mask of hurt pride and understanding.

“Yes of course.”

Victoria started to walk in smaller and smaller circles around the sofa, and said:

“We had not planned to have a security breach. We did not trust easily before, so you imagine that it is even worse now…” Illya nodded. He could feel something coming at him right around the corner. Victoria went on, “I still kind of trust you, or else you would not be here today.”

Illya had guessed right then. They had watched him, followed him. Maybe even at the hotel… it was just a matter of time before they found the radio in the bathroom. He should have thought about a better hiding place. Illya knew that his cover was a breath away from being blown. He finally answered Victoria, not allowing his voice to betray any feelings: “That figures.”

Victoria took a few steps away from the couch, all graceful movements and lean figure. She stood beside a liquor cabinet, and gestured to the many coloured bottles there.

“I am such a poor host Mr Nazarov… Allow me to make up for your troubles by offering you a drink." Illya eyed the bottles suspiciously, not even getting up from the couch. It smelled like a trap, another drugged glass to send him who knows where… or worse. A truth serum maybe? Illya was pretty resistant to those drugs, and sceptical as to their efficiency. It was nothing determination and will could not deter.

Victoria must have caught Illya’s quite obvious glaring, since she added with a poisonous smile:

“You can chose whichever drink you want, of course.”

“You drugged all of them,” asserted Illya.

“Of course. I will still drink with you though.”

They both knew that she had used another drug to counter the effects. Alexander had pulled the same trick a few hours ago, and then Illya had been oblivious. Victoria did not even hide it. In a way, Illya appreciated it. Victoria, as arrogant and self-satisfied as she might be, still respected him. She stuck to a polite etiquette that made her, for the moment, less insufferable than some other people Illya had had to deal with recently.

Illya pointed to a bottle, quite simple, filled with transparent liquid. “I’ll take that one.”

Victoria smiled and took two glasses, pouring equal quantities of alcohol. She handed Illya his glass, “to our partnership, again.” Then, she moved to lean against the backrest of the sofa. Illya shifted his position a little bit, keeping an eye on her.

Victoria smiled and began to sip her drink, looking Illya in the eye, waiting. The light tap of her fingers against the couch’s leather was an echoing drum in Illya’s brain. She had absolute power over him now, and Illya, deciding that it was a good idea to preserve her good mood, drank. It was not bad, not bad at all. He did not finish the glass in one go, he was not that eager to please her. Illya let a few seconds pass by. He did not feel dizzy nor giddy nor sleepy… for a split second, he even thought, the fool, that Victoria was not serious and that the drink had not been drugged. He finished his drink, and looked back at Victoria.

They exchanged an unspoken message, now it was time to begin. Victoria put their glasses back with the bottles, and walked to the back of the room. Illya did not get up, and she soon came back with a file in her hands. Her heels on the floor had the sound of a bomb’s timer.

She handed Illya the file, her nails barely grazing his skin when he took it.

“Now Mr Nazarov, you do know this man.”

Illya opened the file, looking at the first page.

“I do. Well…” On the page, there was a picture of Cowboy. Younger, as smartly dressed as ever. Even through the paper and ink, Illya felt his natural charm. Yet he had no time to think about the consequences for him, for Cowboy, about the reasons, and why the hell, and how. These interrogations, for a second, did not matter anymore. Under the photograph, there was a name. “…I thought I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the chapter, next one on Wednesday, and thank you again! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter! (sorry for the mishap, I had to delete and re-post it) Enjoy!

 

The name.

Cowboy’s real name.

Illya had been searching for it. He had wondered, he had not imagined… and here it was.

Napoleon Solo.

A million thoughts were now invading Illya’s mind, much to his dismay.

Is it really his true name? It fits. Is it really him? Damn you Mr Waverly, why did you not tell me… Napoleon. Napoleon… was he not a French king or something? Napoleon Solo. Who. Was. He?

There were more pages in the file. Other details? Who was Cow… Napoleon? What else did Illya not know? Why had he been kept in the dark by Waverly? Maybe they could have avoided this mess in the first place… Was secrecy so important for this mission, or was there another reason? Had –no, it was too difficult to call him something else than Cowboy– had Cowboy asked Mr Waverly not to tell Illya? Or had Mr Waverly given him another mission, one that needed Illya to be kept in the dark? Was he just a cog in Mr Waverly’s schemes?

Illya had his eyes glued to the name, to the picture, his face a mixture of genuine shock and dismay when Victoria chuckled.

“Looks like I was not the only one to be fooled…”

Illya looked up. So she still believed that Illya was innocent. Could he be this lucky? Maybe Miss Belmont, who knew Cowboy, had thought that he had tried to get to them via Illya. Illya would have been another victim then… only an innocent victim. It was too good to be true, and Illya had to play it smooth. He hoped that he would be able to keep the cover up, but the situation was slowly slipping out of his control.

Victoria said, again leaning against the sofa: “I’d let you read the file, but for the moment you do not need all the details. If you do not already know them, that is.”

Illya did not like the innuendo. He had tried to find the details by himself! Ever since coming back from Paris, he had wanted to know, and nobody had been able to tell him. How did Victoria dare… “I would have liked to know them before.” The words were strangely flowing out of Illya’s mouth. “I asked the secretary but she could not find anything relevant, not even his name…”

Victoria smiled. Illya felt as if he had no control over the words, and remembered the glass he had just drunk. Of course, the drug. Most logically some kind of disinhibiting substance so called ‘truth serum’. Something to help him loosen his tongue. It could have been so much worse, taking into account Victoria’s tastes. Illya sa a flashback of the party, and an image of what could happen to him. Too close to him, Victoria was a predator grinning at her prey... no. Truth serum. He only had to be careful then, more careful than he was before. Yet, his uncontrolled outburst seemed to have served its purpose.

“This was not the first time you hired him, though?”

Illya had to think, and for once, he had to think clearly as well as quickly.

“No.” Sometimes, it was better not to talk too much.

“You see, our problem is, we don’t know if it was you or us Solo was trying to infiltrate. Miss Belmont still has him, and won’t release him until he told her the information.”

“I’d do the same if I was her, Co…Solo has explanations to give.” Illya had said the last part so naturally that he wondered for a second if it was the drug or if he really wanted… if he really felt that Cowboy owed something to him.

Victoria smiled again, and got up. In a few steps, she was face to face with Illya and said:

“That was exactly what I wanted to hear Mr Nazarov. For you see, Miss Belmont kindly invited us to visit him. What about a trip to Paris?”

She extended her hand, and Illya took it, getting up and trying not to flinch. He felt like a convict being dragged to the gallows as he followed her outside. There, they waited amidst armed men for a helicopter to come down the sky. They both climbed inside, and Illya wondered how Victoria could be so graceful whereas he was fighting against the gusts of wind blown by the helicopter’s propellers.

As he saw the ground becoming smaller and smaller, Victoria looked at him. She put her hand on his shoulder and said, her voice barely loud enough for Ilya to hear over the noise:

“Don’t worry, I still  _do not_ trust you.”

 

Victoria’s words stayed in Illya’s stomach for the whole trip to Paris. He knew very well that if she wanted, she could get rid of him, and he did not know which solution he preferred. To end up with a bullet in the head or to be thrown out of a helicopter.

Casting sideways glances, Illya had counted the number of people traveling with them. All had their weapons out, ready to protect their leader. With so little space to act and the pilot most logically armed too, Illya had quickly realised that he had no chance of fighting his way out of this sticky situation.

He was heading for Paris then, and Mr Waverly could be damned. If the transponder was working, then the U.N.C.L.E. agents in Italy would know the location of Victoria’s base. So… technically speaking he had done his mission. He had the right now, to… to do what exactly?

Illya had no idea. Part of him wanted to confront Cowboy, to ask him all the questions that were burning in the back of his mind. Another part wanted to… get him away? Illya frowned internally. It would not only be dangerous, but it could endanger U.N.C.L.E. and that was something else. That was something he could not dare to do, not for a man he did not like and barely knew. If only Illya did not have that sick feeling of misplaced guilt nagging at his mind. It was not his fault that Cowboy had been caught. It was a tiny bit Mr Waverly’s. Well, he would decide once in Paris. He trusted himself to come up with a quick, hot-blooded plan.

Victoria too seemed lost in thoughts, glancing from time to time at Illya or at the pilot. Illya did not look at her for too long, but did not close his eyes either. He waited. He waited and tried not to worry, waited for the helicopter to land in a field.

“We are a few hundred miles away from Paris. Miss Belmont wanted us to land incognito,” explained Victoria to answer Illya’s surprise as to the lack of… city around them.

They were met by several armed men, most likely Miss Belmont’s staff. Even if they recognised Victoria at once, they still searched her and Illya before leading them into the car. Victoria climbed in first and Illya followed. The car had dark windows which prevented them from seeing outside.

Their journey was then a silent one, and when Illya climbed out of the car what he guessed was two hours later, he found himself in an underground parking lot. There were yet more armed men to meet them, and that was beginning to get on Illya’s nerves. He was tired of being searched and led from place to place with no clear idea of where he was, or how to get away.

Illya did not count the number of doors and corridors through which they went, until they entered into an elevator. It was all shiny and big, too modern-looking in comparison with the bare concrete corridors they had walked in. A few minutes later, the elevator stopped, and Illya breathed out. He was not by any means claustrophobic, but he had felt an itch to punch the guards and strangle Victoria since he had stepped out of the helicopter. Yet, instead of going away, the itch to fight only increased when Illya saw Miss Belmont.

She was at the other end of the room, reclining in an armchair near a window. She plastered a smile on her face when she saw them step out of the elevator, and gracefully got up from her chair.

Illya heard her heels click on the floor as she got closer to them. Miss Belmont was taller than Illya remembered, she looked more dangerous also.

“Bonjour Victoria, right on time as always. I hope the journey was uneventful…”

“It was, it was darling. Your men picked us up exactly as scheduled.”

The two women looked into each other’s eyes then, pupils gleaming with deadly mischief. Illya wondered if they were really allies or if they were waiting for the right moment to throw the other overboard and take over the crime empire left behind. None of those perspective were comforting, and for now Illya would presume that they were allies. It was easier that way, and he needed to keep the chess board in his head clear if he wanted to come up with something clever and not screw everything up.

Finally, Miss Belmont looked at Illya.

“I’m glad you could join us Mr Nazarov.” She gestured to the chair she was sitting in a few seconds ago. Illya noticed that there were in total three chairs, and some drinks already on the table. “How about a drink? We have much to discuss.”

Of course. She and Victoria had planned everything. It was a quick, maybe hasty conclusion, but everything had been so well-timed that Illya had a hard time not believing that it was not part of a bigger plan. He felt dread creep up his spine, sending a wave of adrenaline through his veins. He would be ready for action if necessary. He was more than ready to throw those two cackling evil geniuses to the ground and punch their pretty jaws.

Still, he sat down, calm and collected. If Miss Belmont had questions, he might as well keep up the mask and play along. He took the glass she offered, twirling the deep red liquid around.

Miss Belmont gestured with a pale delicate hand to Victoria who nodded from behind her own glass. She then looked at Illya and said, voice too smooth and just a tad mocking:

“So… it looks like our common Solo friend fooled you too. I had my doubts at the party, you see, so I had you followed.” She drank. “I hope you forgive me. And you see, what my men found out was interesting… I had lost track of Solo since a few years, back when he still was a regular thorn in my side…” She stopped talking for a few seconds, and Illya had a hard time keeping a poker face. Miss Belmont was frustrating, all drama and smooth poison. “So at first, I thought that you were not… how can I say it… as well-intentioned as you look. I of course told Victoria. She could not take any risks you see. I also caught our little Solo, it was too easy.” She chuckled, the devil’s laugh. “It was less easy to get him to talk, and I know him… you can’t believe a word he says. Still, with enough patience and skill, I was able to crack him a little bit. It seems that I was not his primary target. He was trying to infiltrate the Vinciguerra’s network. I don’t know why, nor for whom, and it upsets me. Anyway, knowing this Victoria’s mission was then to…”

“I was to ensure that you were, as Solo told Miss Belmont, really unaware of who he was. That he was using you. And from what I witnessed, you indeed are. You will then forgive me, I hope, to have not told you the whole truth back then.”

Illya felt both pair of eyes on him now, and he swallowed the lump in his throat with some wine. They were waiting for an answer, and his cover could blow up anytime now.

“I… I understand very well that you would not take any risks. It is more than a reasonable decision.”

Miss Belmont looked pleased with his answer, and Victoria’s face was as unreadable as ever.

“I knew you were a sensible man Mr Nazarov. Of course, you could also have fooled us all, but then, I hope you have no plan of getting out of here alive.” The end of her sentence was drown in clear laughter, and Illya cracked a smile. She really was infuriating.

Once she had stopped laughing, she asked one of her henchmen to come closer, and whispered a few words in French to him. He nodded and disappeared behind a door. She said to Victoria then: “What about giving our guest a visit? I am sure he will be less than pleased to see the both of you, but it is a necessity, is it not?”

“Oh, it is indeed,” answered Victoria. “I too, want to make sure there are no more risks.”

With this words, both women got up from their chairs and Illya had no choice but to follow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you enjoyed :D Next chapter will be on Sunday, the suspense is real! (the struggle too)
> 
> Also, I really cannot thank you enough for all the love and support you show to this fic. Reading your comments make my day, I love to hear your thouhts and reactions. Thank you! :D


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for posting late, I was very tired and forgot to post yesterday.

Again, Illya and Victoria were led by Miss Belmont’s henchmen through corridors, and this time stairs instead of an elevator. Miss Belmont was leading them, her heels a never-ending unnerving noise in Illya’s ears. They went down, maybe below the level of the parking lot. Sometimes, Victoria and Miss Belmont would exchange a few words, ignoring Illya. As he was walking slightly behind them, he could not hear them clearly.

Illya was more and more uncomfortable by the minute. With each step forward, he felt as if he was walking straight into a trap. He had too many questions in his head, twirling, twisting, making him angry. Many questions about Cowboy, questions about the events to come…

When they stopped in front of a heavy door with a tiny barred window, Illya was doing his best not to blow his cover by hitting someone. Miss Belmont gestured at her henchmen to wait outside, and she, Illya and Victoria went inside. What Illya saw was a small cell, with only the bare necessities. On a hard-looking cot, Cowboy was… sleeping? He was unconscious for sure, and there were bruises on his face. Some part of Illya felt sorry for Cowboy, but he was too angry to pay attention. While Illya was taking in his surroundings, Miss Belmont took a syringe out of her purse.

“I think he slept enough, don’t you all agree?”

Victoria nodded gracefully, and Miss Belmont got closer to Cowboy. Illya knew very well what they wanted to see. He hoped Napoleon would not give him away, and he tried his best to control each of his face’s muscles when the needle touched Cowboy’s upper arm.

“He will wake up in a few seconds. We have tired him while interrogating him, and he has not had the time to heal yet.”

Victoria arched an eyebrow like an invitation. “May I enquire what you did to him?”

“You can, of course. We did the usual. Mr Solo is a weathered man, tougher than he looks. He is trained, and I did not want to damage him too much.” Cowboy began to stir on the cot. He was not yet awake, but a muscle twitched here and there. Movements behind the eyelids. “A bit of electricity, it always wear people out. Various drugs, and more… personal techniques.”

Miss Belmont and Victoria shared a smile. Illya had no difficulty understanding what Belmont’s personal techniques were. He was sorry to think at once that indeed, Cowboy had been trained and was used to that too.

Napoleon opened his eyes. He did not move. Blue eyes fixed on the ceiling. Illya smelled fear.

Miss Belmont noticed then that Cowboy was awake, and her smile twisted into something frightening.

“Did you sleep well, Mr Solo?” She took a few steps towards him. “Or should I say… Cowboy?”

“You know very well that I prefer Napoleon Miss.” Cowboy flashed a painful sassy smile at Miss Belmont. Before she could answer, Cowboy turned his head and his eyes swept over Illya and Victoria. There was not a hint of recognition in his eyes, nothing. The smile was still plastered on his face, artificial and unnerving. If Illya had not known better, he could have sworn that Cowboy did not know him.

Maybe Victoria and Belmont were right then. Maybe Cowboy was really a pro. But what did Illya know of him? Nothing. Illya was face to face with a complete stranger.

For a few days, he had worked with that stranger.

Talked to him.

They had shared drinks.

Kissed.

Who was this man?

What was his mission, what did he know?

What was Illya supposed to do, other than wait and see? It was Cowboy’s turn to play, and Illya hoped that Mr Waverly had known what he was doing when he had trusted him. Cowboy looked at him again.

“Why did you not tell me we had guests Miss?”

This was at least something Illya recognised. The tone of that voice, this carefree arrogance… Even if Cowboy’s voice was hoarse, it did Illya some good to hold onto something familiar.

Cowboy went on talking before Miss Belmont or anybody else could answer:

“I did not know you were head of the Customer Service Miss.”

Oh. He had decided to recognise Illya now? Miss Belmont’s upper lip slightly twitched.

“Stop playing the fool. I thought you had decided to be reasonable…”

Cowboy sat up.

“I am not a reasonable man. I tried once, it did not fit.” He gingerly got up from the cot and Illya saw from the corner of his eyes Miss Belmont’s henchmen ready their weapons. “Besides, I already told you that Mr White Russian here was only a means to an end. I got into his bed, which is not only my job but also kind of easy, no offence,” he winked at Illya. “I did all this to get to Miss Vinciguerra over there. The fact that it did not work is also quite obvious.”

Miss Belmont and Victoria exchanged a knowing look. It was evident to Illya that they were trying to assert if yes or no Illya was indeed true. He could feel their pretty venomous eyes on him, and kept his cold façade. He coloured his eyes with surprise and disdain, looking at Cowboy’s antics with his fists balled in his pockets.

“He is quite cheeky. I admire your patience my dear. Had he been my prisoner…”

“I did the best I can, but he is a tough one. He is trained for these situations, so I have troubles believing what he says…” Miss Belmont stopped speaking, lost in her thoughts for a few seconds. “We should discuss this outside, what do you think?”

“I think you’re right. Unless Mr Nazarov here wants to say or do something to Mr Solo.”

Illya snapped to attention. He looked at Cowboy, slowly moving his gaze from head to toe, then answered, tone as benevolent as he could:

“No, thank you. I think that what Miss Vinciguerra could want to say or do to him is more important. It was after all her organisation, not me, he had targeted in the first place.”

Victoria nodded with an almost satisfied seriousness, and the three of them left the cell, closely followed by the henchmen.

Illya did not look back at the cell as they walked. He hoped he had been convincing, at least as much as Cowboy had been. What had he expected? That Mr Waverly had picked Cowboy like that, without thinking? Illya could maybe, for a few hours or days, decide to forget his suspicion and believe that Cowboy knew exactly what he was doing. If everything went according to the non-existent plan, it would be okay in the end.

The way back to the –was it a living room? – seemed to take less time than what Illya remembered. He was calmer, perhaps this helped. He was thinking of the outside, the beyond and after. He would have to contact Mr Waverly as soon as possible.

When they were back in the room, they sat down on the same chairs as before, but this time no drinks were served.

“One question remains,” began Miss Belmont once everybody was seated. “If Solo said the truth, and let’s believe he did, then who is he working for now?”

_ If only I knew _ … thought Illya _. If only I knew. _

“I have many enemies, and I suppose also many more that I am not aware of,” answered Victoria.

“Yes. We can cross out the CIA though. They would never take him back. Moreover, even if they ask, he would never agree to work with them again.”

“It is more likely a private individual then.”

Miss Belmont acquiesced. She snapped her fingers and a henchman produced a file.

“I have gathered, as difficult as it was, all of Mr Solo’s clients and business partners for the past few months. This information may help us. Tell me if you recognise anybody.”

Miss Belmont gave the file to Victoria who slowly read through each page. After agonisingly long minutes, she stopped, and said:

“Him. I know him.”

She showed the page to Illya and Miss Belmont. On it, below a few lines of small-printed text, a slightly blurry picture of Mr Waverly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next one on Wednesday, and thank you so so much for all the love you give this fic, I read your comments like I would drink some delicious hot tea!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slightly late update... As one of you lovely readers said "real life is kicking my butt" these days (and probably for the whole month) so the updates may be a few hours late... Anyway, let's hope not!

Miss Belmont took the page from Victoria’s hand and looked at it. “Alexander Waverly. I should have known… did you have problems with him?”

“I saw him once or twice, in London. At some parties, gatherings… I did not even know his name.”

Miss Belmont hummed and shook her head.

“He was part of the British Intelligence, and he is currently head of some kind of… Spy network… An international agency hunting down criminals.”

“So, is that your conclusion? He decided to hunt me down using an ex-CIA agent?”

“I would not call it a conclusion Victoria. More the only logical thread that we can follow for the moment.”

Victoria did not answer, Illya could feel her frustration, like a white hot heat, glowing, surrounding her body. Miss Belmont seemed lost in thoughts. Illya looked at his hands. For the first time since long ago, he felt lost. What could he do? If Victoria believed Miss Belmont - and by all means she ought to!- it would lead them straight to Mr Waverly, and to him. Illya was not one to give up hope, but if he was honest with himself there could be no positive outcome.

For the moment, Illya had two options: he could go on a killing spree, try to slaughter as much men as possible with his bare hands, and hope for the best. He could also wait, his nerves on edge, wait for the best moment to escape. Victoria would go back to Italy sooner or later? There was the transponder also, maybe if U.N.C.L.E. noticed that he had been in Paris for too long, unmoving, they would realise he needed help. Or they would believe him dead.

Before Illya could dwell anymore in his dark thoughts, his mouth decided to speak on its own accord:

“But why would this Waverly want to get to Miss Vinciguerra, via me out of all people?”

Belmont fixed her cold eyes on him, and answered:

“I am only making suppositions. But Waverly could be interested in Victoria for the exact same reason than you Mr Nazarov. He must have been following you too, watching you, and thought you were the best vessel for his little parasite.”

“That makes sense,” added Victoria. “Still, this Waverly has no common sense to think that he could have won against us, especially using somebody like Solo.”

“I suppose I was not a part of his equation,” said Miss Belmont, more than a little bit smug.

Victoria hummed her approval, and Illya thought that it was the best moment, since everything could blow up at any moment, to ask some questions.

“Would you kindly clarify to me who Solo is then? Miss Vinciguerra only gave me a few scraps of information, and-”

“You’d like to know more who fooled you. It’s understandable,” answered Miss Belmont. “As I said, he was one of CIA’s finest until he spoke his mind. He is a sensitive one you see, and was against some of their interrogation policies and some violent methods. He spoke too loudly, a few years ago. What even I do not understand, is why on Earth they did not kill him. It would have been easier.” She paused for a few seconds, letting Illya ponder on the possibilities of a world without Napoleon “Cowboy” Solo. “Anyway. His boss ruined his life and reputation as an agent, and he re-wrote his life as a prostitute. Solo was known to be a Casanova, running after both boys and girls. It was actually one of Solo’s skills, during his CIA time, honey-potting. He was very good at it, very charming…” There, Illya heard what Miss Belmont did not say. She had most likely been one of Cowboy’s victims. Strangely enough, Illya did not process all the information he had been given. The adrenaline in his brain was keeping him from thinking about anything that was not survival, escape and possibly fight. He would remember this conversation later. He would understand later.

Letting out a bit of his frustration, Illya answered:

“Very good at his job indeed. And Waverly’s organisation must not be worth much if he recruits ex-CIA whores.”

Miss Belmont chuckled. “Oh, don’t be mistaken a second time dear! Solo might be a whore, and he might have fallen from grace, but he is still dangerous. Remember: he was one of CIA’s best. Specialized in thievery, he is a con man, can break in an out of pretty much anything. He is intelligent, and knows how to wait until the right moment to strike. His looks are only the cherry on top of the milkshake.”

Victoria chose this precise moment to speak again.

“Do you have more information on Waverly’s organisation dear? It’s not that I am not interested in Solo, but I have more urging matters to deal with.”

“Sadly, I have very little material,” answered Miss Belmont. “The organisation's name is U.N.C.L.E., short for United Network for Law and Enforcement. They are pretty secretive, try not to follow any political agenda and have agencies in the whole world. I’ve not dealt too much with them, but I know Victor has. He might help you.”

Victor? Illya thought as quickly as possible, searching for a name to match. Someone Mr Waverly might have told him about.

“Oh. Victor dealt with him?”

“Yes, when Waverly had just been appointed head of U.N.C.L.E. Victor was then still a regular of the SDECE. He was contacted by Waverly to kind of join U.N.C.L.E. But he refused. He turned to the good side a few years later, as we all know.”

There. It clicked right into Illya’s mind. Victor Marton was Miss Belmont’s associate, known lover and former rival. She had mentioned him at the party and Mr Waverly had definitely spoken of him before, describing him more like an old acquaintance than like a threat. Illya did not know what to think then. Was this Victor really a threat? Had Mr Waverly told him everything?

Worse, was there a possibility that Victor Marton might recognise Illya as an U.N.C.L.E. agent?

Illya could try to find a way to prevent Victoria from seeking Victor’s help, but it was unlikely to work. The best thing was to wait… He hated to wait! Waiting and his personality did not match. What if he simply asked to go back to America? He did not have to follow Victoria everywhere, now that the two gorgons were certain of his innocence.

“Sorry Misses…” since when did he say sorry? “I think you don’t need me anymore, and as I think that our deal is to be delayed, I’d like to be able to fly back to the United States to tie up a few loose ends.”

If Illya was to be honest, he thought that they would never agree to let him go as they still should have been suspicious. Yet, Miss Belmont slowly nodded, and gestured for one of her men to come forward.

“You will drive Mr Nazarov to the airport, then ask Frank to bring him back safely to New York.”

 

Once in the car, the whole ordeal felt even more surreal to Illya than before. He had no idea how on Earth Miss Belmont could have been so stupid as to let him go. Victoria was worried about her problems, it was logical that she had not cared anymore about him. Little did she know…

The car’s tinted window prevented Illya from knowing how far he was from Miss Belmont’s hideout, nor where they were in Paris. Oh, it could of course still be a trap, but Illya chose not to believe it. A thick glass panel – no doubt bulletproof– separated him from the driver, as if Illya would have tried anything… not when he was so close to freedom.

Yet, after about 20 minutes had passed, Illya noticed the flaw in his plan. His adrenaline levels were back to normal, and his logic side was taking control of his brain little by little. The chessboard in his mind was clear, all the pawns shiny and ready… save but one. A sore thumb in the middle of his enemies’ territory. His suitcase. Hopefully, it was still in the small hotel room in Ponte in Valtellina. If he was really lucky, his U.N.C.L.E. radio was still hidden in the bathroom. If Illya did not retrieve them before Victoria’s men get the idea to look for it, his cover was safe.

If Illya had been so inclined, he would have dared to dream that U.N.C.L.E had followed his transponder and pinpointed the location of Victoria’s base. The mission may not have been entirely successful then, but at least it would not have been all done for nothing. Out of habit, Illya looked through the window, only to see his thoughtful reflection stare back at him. He looked, and was tired, his hair a little bit undone. He sighed. He looked forward to be in New York again and shed his mask.

The car’s motor stopped, and Illya hoped that they were in an airport and not in some isolated location where they would get rid of his body easily. The driver opened his door, saying something in polite French. Illya climbed out of the car, and took in his surroundings. They were indeed in an aerodrome, a small one for private planes and amateur pilots.

The driver gestured for Illya to follow him, and they stopped in front of a small plane which was being readied to take off. Illya looked around him, searching for signs of a trap. Maybe he had been right to be an optimist. For a few seconds, he hesitated to say something to the driver about his suitcase, but decided not to. He did not want to take any risks and seem suspicious. He would not get caught now. Illya flat out refused this possibility.

It took less than half an hour for the plane to be ready, yet to Illya it felt like an eternity. Still in-character, he was lightly tapping his left foot against the concrete floor of the aircraft hangar, looking at his watch from time to time.

Finally, Illya climbed in the plane, and the aerodrome became smaller and smaller as they flew higher and higher.

“How long before we land in New York?”

The pilot barely threw him a glance, answering in heavily accented English:

“You ask already? The Atlantic is big, be patient Mister.”

Illya did not answer, though he itched to slap the pilot’s grin off his face. He crossed his arms and looked out of the window. Soon, he saw the beaches of France give way to the greenish ocean.

The Atlantic.

Next stop, home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, next one on Sunday!   
> ILY all, I love reading your comments, reactions and theories! <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter, I hope you like it!  
> And as always, thank you all for the love you show this fic <3

Illya was dozing off when the plane landed in New York. He had not shared many words with the pilot, and the two of them parted silently. Illya saw him go straight to a phone booth in the airport, most certainly to assure Miss Belmont that Illya was back home.

Well. Illya did not care anymore. Here, in New York, he was into familiar territory. Here there was his flat, there was Gaby. He knew of several safe houses, he knew the streets by heart and how to lose a potential follower. He felt safe. He still had a hard time believing that he had really managed to get out of Miss Belmont and Victoria’s clutches, but he had done it.

Illya jumped into the first taxi he found and asked for a ride to his flat. Mr Waverly could be damned right now. Besides, if Mr Waverly knew that Illya was back in New York, he would contact him wherever he was.

Illya was glad to find that nothing had changed in his flat during his time away. He checked every security device, which was strangely relaxing. It felt good to be home. Illya had just finished his routine and was beginning to wonder what to do know? He could get some hours of sleep, or call the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Yet, he had no time to wonder for long, since he heard his phone ring. He picked up. On the other end of the line, Illya recognised the voice of a fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent, Mark Slate.

“Hello Mr  Kuryakin, we are glad to know that you are back.”

“Hello. I suppose you are not calling me only to welcome me back.”

“Indeed no. Mr Waverly wants your report regarding what happened in Italy. I am to pick you up in a few minutes and drive you to a safe house. He also wishes to discuss a few things with you.”

“Can I know why?”

“Mr Waverly wishes to debrief with you, but U.N.C.L.E. is involved in a very important mission as we speak, so Mr Waverly prefers to avoid taking any risks.”

Illya grunted, and Mark answered:

“Meet me at rendezvous point fourteen in twenty minutes.”

Illya hanged up. He should have gone straight up to the headquarters instead of going home. Anyway. He had twenty minutes, and decided to use that time wisely. He took a quick but refreshing shower, and changed his clothes. He felt more at ease wearing his usual style. It was more practical, and more discreet than the atrocious white clothes he had had to wear for his mission.

Illya checked his watch as he locked the bolts of his door. He had five minutes to get to the rendezvous point, which was near a square two streets away. Illya got there right on time, and he recognised the taxi that was waiting on the side of the street. He gestured at the driver and climbed in.

Mark greeted him, and without losing time, they drove to the safe house.

It was a small flat in Brooklyn, on the second floor of an old building. Illya got out of the car and rang the bell. He waited a few seconds before the door opened. The staircase was dark and smelled exactly like an old building. Illya hoped the flat was a little more… modern. He knocked on the door, and it opened. It was not - of course not - Mr Waverly who opened the door, but a junior agent who seemed bored to hell.  

“Mr Waverly awaits you Mr Kuryakin”

Illya nodded, and went in. The flat was average, but Illya was certain that behind the curtains and underneath the furniture many bugs were hidden, recording, sending signals.

Illya walked into the living room, where Mr Waverly was waiting for him, seated on the sofa with a half-empty glass of golden-coloured alcohol.

“Hello Mr Kuryakin. Have a seat please.”

“Hello Sir,” answered Illya, sitting on the chair opposite to Mr Waverly.

Mr Waverly drank a small mouthful, his eyes scrutinizing Illya. Finally, he spoke:

“I am glad you were able to make it back from Paris.”

“Thank you Sir.” Illya was tired, too tired for politeness. Surely, Mr Waverly would stop chattering and tackled the important matter.

“I had hoped though, that you would have tried to contact me before leaving Italy.”

“I–”

“We are lucky our tech is powerful enough, otherwise we would have believed something dire had happened to you.”

Illya did not answer. What could he say? The situation in Italy had splendidly slipped out of his control. There was no need for Mr Waverly to remind him of that.

“Do not look so sullen please, Mr Kuryakin. It was not at all useless, on the contrary. We were able to follow your every move, and we now have the location of the Vinciguerras’ hideout you visited.”

“It is not their only one. It must not have been an important place, if Victoria took the risk to–”

“On the contrary, Mr Kuryakin. We compared the location with other bits of information we had previously gathered, and… we have reason to believe that the building you were in is fact the entrance to the main scientific facility of the Vinciguerras.”

Illya took a few seconds to process what Mr Waverly had just said. If his boss was right, they were insanely lucky. If not, well… what would it change? Unless of course, Mr Wavery had planned it all since the beginning.

“Yes Mr Kuryakin,” said Mr Waverly as he if had read Illya’s thoughts. “We have been incredibly lucky, and it partly explains why I am so glad to have you there. It gives us the right to move.”

Illya did not understand everything. Mr Waverly did not understand! All his things were still in Italy… Illya’s mental chessboard was frozen. His own pawn was safe, but the whole game remained blurry.

“But… Sir… My suitcase… the radio and all the U.N.C.L.E. I had with me… they are still at the hotel in the Alps. The village is not safe, the Vinciguerras can find it at any hour now… how do you plan to move?”

Mr Waverly shrugged.

“We don’t care. Coming back here… You are not going back. Consider your assignment for this mission finished. Don’t misunderstand me though, you did a great job. Without you, we would never have found the location of the facility. But do I care about your cover now? No.”

Illya took a few seconds to think. It was too simple, but Mr Waverly was his boss, so he would not question his strategic choices for now. He nodded, before adding:

“What are you planning to do then, Sir?”

“Oh, not only did I plan it Mr Kuryakin, but it has already started. Miss Teller is on her way to Italy, leading a demolition team.”

That Illya was startled by this news was an understatement. He did not question Gaby’s capacity, but so soon after his return… What if he had returned to tell Mr Waverly that his cover had blown? What if Miss Belmont had known all along who he was and had another reason to let him go?

Yet Mr Waverly went on: “If we push our luck, not only will Miss Teller be able to destroy the laboratories, but she will also find the weapon’s blueprints or prototypes there. We would get what we really wanted.”

That comment hit Illya like a slap to the face. It was not his fault that he had not been able to carry out his mission like planned! It was… No. There was something else, nagging at the back of his mind now. Miss Belmont and Victoria had not been stupid. Why would they care about him, now that they had found their culprit?

They had said culprit between their hands, trying to make him talk, and at the exact same time, U.N.C.L.E. would blow up the facility–

“But Sir, if Gaby is successful,” before he had time to control his trail of thoughts, Illya finished his sentence, “what will become of Napoleon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!   
> See you on Wednesday, ILY!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are my lovely readers (thank you so so much for reading and commenting)! enjoy <3

 

Even if Mr Waverly might have replied, he stopped dead in his tracks. It took Illya a few seconds to realise what he had said.

Why on Earth had he…?

Never before had he thought of… Napoleon… as Napoleon. Why? Why was the image he conjured in his mind not the same as before? The knowledge of the man’s true identity… had it changed his visions so much? It was all coming down on him now, the information given by Miss Belmont, all at once.

Did Illya respect him now? He did not know Cowboy, Napoleon, whatever was his name. The fleeting encounter in Paris had not been enough, and truth be told, Illya has not found him different than the obnoxious man he had been forced to work with. Still, from the moment he had been given part of the truth, that he had been given some explanations, the gears had started working in his brain. In the background, dulled by adrenaline, his mind had come to conclusions. The first one: whoever Napoleon ‘Cowboy’ Solo was, whatever his past had been, his life had been put on the line by Mr Waverly.

Illya remembered too many things, snippets from their conversations, clear as daylight.

‘ _ No one ever asks me if I want or not to do things. I owe your boss, so let’s get going.’ _

That reluctance,  _ ‘do me a favour and let’s finish this as quickly as possible,’  _ that obvious distaste… ‘ _ I want to get on my knees for you as much as you want to–’  _ no. Napoleon had been even less willing to do this mission than Illya.

‘ _ I had no choice Sir. I suppose my debt is still not repaid.’ _

‘ _ Of course not. You can go, if I ever need you…’ _

‘ _ Yes Sir.’ _

Still facing a dumbstruck Alexander Waverly, Illya felt bitter bile rise in his throat.

Yes, Sir. If we blow up Vinciguerra’s facility, what will become of Napoleon Solo?

“I… do not remember having told you-”

“Miss Belmont did. She told me what not even the U.N.C.L.E. Files could.”

Mr Waverly cleared his throat.

“Yes. Of course.” He looked like he was about to say something, but backed away. He coughed. “Still. Mr Solo is not our responsibility. He never was.”

Before he could think, Illya hit his fist against the table. All the anger he had bottled-up during the mission, all his frustration… he could not - and would not- hold them back anymore.

“You hired him! You put him in this situation, and… and… and now Belmont and Vinciguerra have linked him to you! When Gaby will have done her job, he is the one that is going to pay! He…”

“He knew the risks Mr Kuryakin.”

Mr Waverly had gotten up from the sofa, his glass still in hand. His expression had turned cold now, his mouth a tight white line.

Illya got up too. “Did he?” He took a few steps forward. “ _ Did he _ Sir?”

Mr Waverly sighed. He looked suddenly tired, and answered, “Please. You may blame me for using him, but I know my job and so does he. I did warn him that Belmont was throwing the party. Before accusing me,” he sat down, “remember to ask the right question Mr Kuryakin.”

Illya did not answer. Sure. Waverly had to be right, again. There was something amiss though. Was there really a right question to ask?

A communicator rang out of Mr Waverly’s pocket, interrupting Illya’s thinking. When he answered the call, Mr Waverly did not bother to send Illya away. The voice that came out of the device was Mr Waverly personal secretary.

“Excuse me Sir, a man just called, asking for you-”

“Who?”

“He says he is an old friend of you, Mr Marton.”

“Oh, right. Transfer his call directly to the safe house.”

“Right away Sir.”

Mr Waverly smiled as the communicator beeped. He gestured for Illya to leave the room this time. Illya complied reluctantly. Did they have time for calling friends now?

Mr Waverly closed the door behind Illya, and the voices of the conversation now taking place were muffled. The only clue Illya had was the name.

Miss Belmont had mentioned a certain Victor Marton. Right. Illya did not understand why Mr Waverly would answer an enemy’s call so calmly.

Under the bored gaze of younger agent, Illya began to pace in the corridor, waiting for the phone call to end, or for his brain to come with the right question to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, stay tuned for the next one on Sunday night, ILY!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter! I was so so tired these last few days I could not even focus to answer your comments, but I promise I read them, loved them and will answer them as soon as the chapter is up. Thank you so much for your support!  
> En Joie!

 

Twenty minutes and thirty seven seconds passed. Illya had stopped pacing after the first five minutes, and had been leaning against the wall when Waverly emerged from the room. He looked as tired as before, and not angrier, which Illya took as a good sign.

Between those first five minutes and the door’s opening, Illya had had plenty of time to think. He had searched the correct question to ask Mr Waverly, the question that would unlock more information about Napoleon, but had found none that matched his criteria. Frustrated, he had then decided to replay in his mind his encounters, his conversations with Napoleon, hoping to find a clue. There, his mind had reminded him of what was happening closer to him, and his thoughts had changed focus, remembering in a couple of seconds who Mr Marton was.

Miss Belmont’s lover and associate. Great. He had forgotten about this little detail, so preoccupied he had been by Napoleon’s fate. U.N.C.L.E.’s involvement had been compromised. And Marton was the bait.

Illya did not like this. He hated this. He had heard that Marton and Mr Waverly had means of contacting each other, yet he had not anticipated such a straightforward strategy.

He had waited then, anticipating the door’s opening.

“Mr Kuryakin, come back in,” said Mr Waverly, holding the door open for Illya.

Illya followed him, yet he did not sit down. He was tired of this mission, tired of Mr Waverly’s riddles.

“Everything is moving along to plan, it is perfect. Miss Belmont and our dear Victoria are indeed certain that we are involved, but it won’t matter anymore in a few minutes.”

Was Gaby close to success then? Illya wanted to ask, to know more on the subject, but his worry took over his tongue:

“The man you just talked to. Victor Marton, he is…”

“Oh yes, yes. He barely hid that Belmont asked him to fish for information about Mr Solo. I gave him some, as anyone would do to help a friend.”

Illya could not believe his ears. His puzzled expression must have been quite something, because Mr Waverly genuinely laughed.

“Please, I know that you have a grudge against me, but do you really feel so little of me? I told him only the bare necessity, buying our dear Miss Teller some time.”

“He will not believe you.”

“I would not be so sure. Victor and I have known each other for a long time, and I did not lie to him. He knows it.” Sensing that Illya was about to reply, Mr Waverly made a dismissive gesture of the hand. “He will tell it all to Belmont, and then we have two options. She can believe me, and then she will concentrate on Mr Solo, or she will not believe me, and ask Victor to dig deeper. Whatever path she takes, Miss Teller will have had more than enough time not only to do her job, but also to go somewhere safe.”

Illya nodded. It was a risky plan, typical of Mr Waverly. The kind of plan that had more chance to fail but that somehow never did. The kind of plan Illya hated. They relied too much on waiting and probabilities, not on action.

“Anyway,” continued Mr Waverly, “I am waiting for your report in my office in three days. I will concentrate on Miss Teller’s mission, so you can take a few days off.”

Illya acknowledged with a groan. He could spend his days off sleeping, taking care of himself… not at all worrying about Napoleon.

With Mr Waverly, they agreed not to leave the safe house together, and they shook hands.

Once outside, Illya decided to walk all the way back to his flat, a sure though long way to clear his thoughts. Said thoughts were currently turning and swirling in his head, threatening to become a splitting headache.

_ We have two options… _ as said by Mr Waverly a few moments ago. Illya could take his days off, wait for Gaby to come back. He would convince her to be on his side. Together, they would help Napoleon. This option was the safest.

 

The second option was much more direct. He only had to book a plane ticket that very day, to fly to Paris. He would get Napoleon out of Miss Belmont’s claws himself. There was only one problem. He would be going against Waverly’s order. By acting on his own, he would not only put his life and Napoleon’s on the line, but also U.N.C.L.E.’s security. Could he afford to be a dissident for the sake of a man he barely knew?

All he had was the few scraps Miss Belmont had given him.  _ One of CIA’s finest until he spoke his mind. A sensitive one you see… against some of their interrogation policies and some violent methods. Spoke too loudly, a few years ago. _ To be honest with himself, Illya did not know if he was ready to speak up. After all, this was the reason why Napoleon had ended up where he was now.

Illya had never questioned U.N.C.L.E. before. He did his job, he did it well and it was enough.

What reason did he have to jeopardize everything?

 

Back in his flat, Illya began by helping himself to a cup of coffee. He breathed in, breathed out, trying  _ again  _ to order his thoughts. He was getting nowhere.

_ You should be glad to be home and alive _ , lectured his mind.  _ Stop thinking _ .

He drank the cup of coffee in one gulp. He was indeed lucky to be alive, all thanks to…

_ What reason did he have to jeopardize everything? _

Napoleon could have talked.

He could have confessed everything.

The mission, and U.N.C.L.E.’s secret, and who was Illya, and what the plan was.

It would have spared him a pain that Illya had refused to acknowledge in Paris.

Yet, he had not. Why? What reason did Napoleon have to stay silent?

Illya grabbed his coat, his gun, his cap. He slammed the door.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! See you wednesday night!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Can you believe I have to hand in the first draft of my thesis in 12 days? Why is it so difficult to write 100 academic pages when I write so easily 75k words long fanfics? XD  
> Anyway, enjoy!

Once in the street, Illya stopped dead in his tracks. His decision, though hot-blooded as he liked them, would not get him anywhere.

First thing, how long had it been since he had had a good night of sleep?

Second thing: even if it was relatively easy to go back to Paris, Illya would be lost. He did not know Paris well, and worst, he had no idea where Miss Belmont's hideout was.

He would be in a foreign city, without his boss's assent, searching for a needle in a haystack. Illya balled his fists in his pockets. Why was it so difficult?! Illya resumed walking the streets of New York City, hoping to find the answer to his problem. His conscience was also nagging at the back of his mind, telling him no, no, no, this was not a good idea. The sun had set below the horizon. Illya had no idea where to go, no idea what to do. Was Napoleon even still alive?

Illya had so little time.

So little time, and Paris was so far away. He could not afford to lose more time thinking, yet he could not afford to go without a plan.

The worst thing, for Illya, was that all the information he needed was stored somewhere in a drawer, safe and sound in U.N.C.L.E. HQ. He had the security clearance to have access to them, but it would attract Mr Waverly's attention, and that was the last thing Illya-- maybe not. Mr Waverly was clearly concentrated on Gaby right now. If Illya convinced the secretaries that he needed to see the Belmont files for his report, it would not seem suspicious. His own vanishing would go unnoticed for a few hours at most. He would be in Paris then, he would know where to go.

Illya found a taxi, his decision taken. It would not take much time to find the information he needed. If he was lucky enough, he could catch a plane tonight. And if he was to push his luck, Napoleon would still be alive, waiting in his cell.

Well, if he was not alive, Illya would not have gone to Paris for nothing. Vinciguerra's facility would not be the only one to be raided. If he could not save Napoleon, he could at least avenge his death. Why did he so suddenly care?

Illya jumped out of the taxi a few streets away from the headquarters. Once inside, he barely greeted the employees that crossed his path. Most secretaries and junior agents scurried away from him as he walked by them. Did he look that angry? No, that would not do. He had just been given a few days off, and he was benevolently coming back to find some information he needed. No need to be angry. He schooled his features to look as serene as possible, and went in the record room.

"Good evening Mr Kuryakin. Can I help you?" asked the agent in charge of the records.

"Evening. Yes, I need some information on..." Illya did not remember Miss Belmont's first name. He was not even sure to have heard it. It must have been on the file he had read at the beginning of the mission.

"Mr Kuryakin?"

"Miss something Belmont. Crime queen, half French?"

The agent nodded, mumbled something that sounded like 'I'll see what I can do,' and got up from his chair. For one minute or so, Illya saw him search in the too numerous files stacked in this room's cupboards. He was impatient, but knew very well that there was nothing to do right now. Finally, the agent handed him a yellow folder.

"There is only one Belmont here." Illya nodded, took and opened the file. He knew he could not bring it with him, but he trusted his memory.

Oh, so Miss Belmont's first name was Lucia. Not that it was useful anymore, but at least he'd now her full name when he would pull the trigger. Illya's eyes flew over the pages, searching for the information he was looking for. At last, he found it. There were several locations known to belong to the Belmont business, factories, clubs... nothing of interest, nothing save for a line. Geographical coordinates, added to the record one day ago. Beside them, the mention 'believed headquarters or personal home, unverified'. _48°53’04.4”N 2°20’15.0”E_. Illya imprinted the coordinates in his memory. He had the key now. He only have to fly to Paris now, find the place that hid behind _48°53’04.4”N 2°20’15.0”E_ , and blow it all up. Well, he would maybe not blow it up.

Illya thanked the agent then left the records’ room. On his way to his office, he wondered how long it would take Mr Waverly to notice his absence and to put two and two together. In his office, Illya took a map and pin pointed the exact location of the coordinates. 39 Rue André Antoine, in the eighteenth arrondissement, Paris. Illya repeated the address in his mind about twenty times to learn it by heart. He then took a few useful things from his desk drawers, a skeleton key, some plastic explosive and more ammunition and a second gun. He had no time to get back to his flat, so he threw his stuff into a duffel bag he kept in his office. He would have liked to grab a change of clothes, but now was not the time to play the fashion victim. He would buy a map of Paris in France.

Now was the time to leave. Putting his communicator and his wallet safely inside his jacket's secret pocket, Illya left the U.N.C.L.E headquarters.

It took him half an hour to get to the airport, but he was there. He had bought some far too expensive tickets for the last plane that was scheduled to take off in two hours. Which was most likely too late to save Napoleon in time. He was tired beyond imagination. For a second, in the midst of the airport's noise, he wondered if the addition of two opposite jet lags cancelled them. He yawned. The answer was probably no. For once, he would sleep peacefully during the flight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this update, thank you again for your support!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter ~  
> Thank you so much for your comments, I swear each time you make me so happy and yet so anxious that the fic will not live up to your expectations.   
> Anyway, here you go, sorry for how small the chapter! <3

When Illya finally arrived in Paris, the sun was already high in the sky. He set his watch to match the hour in the airport. He had relatively well slept, and was more than ready to fight Miss Belmont and her men. He bought himself some lunch and a map in the airport, settling himself on a bench outside to think. Eating, Illya finally found the eighteenth arrondissement, and pin-pointed Rue André Antoine. He drew a cross on the map, and even if he did not like that, now was the time to ask for help. He needed to book a hotel room near his target, in case he and Napoleon needed a place to rest. 

So, Illya went back into the airport to find some kind of Tourist information office. There, he pestered a young woman for about half an hour and finally got her to book a room in a hotel a few street away from Miss Belmont's hideout. It was "Rue Pierre Fontaine, de l'autre côté...hum...the other side of le Boulevard de Clichy. Here," saying that, the woman had drawn a red dot on his map. She also wrote down on a sticky note the name and phone number of the Hotel. Illya thanked her --he really needed to learn French someday. 

Outside, Illya waited for an empty taxi to come by, keeping a nervous eye on his watch. He had lost far too much time. Inside the taxi, Illya tried to relax and take time to think. The first thing he needed to do was check in the hotel. Then, he would gear up and try to find the entrance of Miss Belmont's hideout. 

Finding said entrance turned out to be more difficult than what Illya had supposed. Number 39 looked like any other building, and it soon became clear to Illya that there was another way in than the small, wooden front door. He looked left and right, and noticed... nothing. He spent the next fifteen minutes walking not suspiciously at all around the houses. There must have been something there, a clue, anything. Anything. Illya was beginning to see red. He had gone into the hideout via car. And it was obvious that no car could drive into this street, as it was too narrow and sloping. Illya sat down on a door step. He was not hopeless yet, but he felt the tell-tale signs of anger rising up in his chest. Why could it not be easy? 

He balled his fist and hit the stone. It hurt, but at last that calmed it him down. He needed to think. To find the answer. For long minutes, he sat there, twisting the information he had into thick knots. The only answer he came up with was that the entrance of the hideout was most likely on another street. It was only logical, since Illya remembered that they had driven and walked a long time underground. It would be of no use to search for the entrance to the underground parking lot. Illya would lose time again, and he could not afford it. He got up. An idea had sprung up in his mind, a crazy idea. Illya looked left and right again. Nobody -- or at least nobody in his field of vision, Illya was not so stupid as to believe he was not watched. Illya walked back to number 39. He looked around again, put his shoulder against the door. 

The door gave in with a loud crash. Illya toppled over forward inside the building. This was a discreet coming in like he hated them. Now, he was certain that half of the neighbourhood had heard him, including Miss Belmont's henchmen. Great. Illya regained his balance, only to feel two strong hands grab him by the shoulders. 

_ Of course, the door had to be guarded! _  Illya did not take too long berating himself, and instead he jammed his elbow right into his attacker's chest. He felt the man stagger, loosening his grip on Illya's shoulders. Illya took advantage of the moment to send his fist flying, hitting Belmont’s man square in the jaw. He did not stop there, and hit the man two more times until he fell down. 

Illya finally turned around to look at his poor victim. It was an average looking man, with wide shoulder and heavy muscles. He wore black clothing and a gun at his belt. Illya took the man’s jacket, even if it was too big for him, and put it over his copper-coloured one. It would be easier to slip unnoticed in the corridors this way. Who was he kidding already? No one could be fooled by such a disguise, or else they had to be short-sighed or far away from Illya. But it was better than nothing.

Illya then took the man’s weapon and gagged his with a strip of his shirt before roughly tying his hands and feet. One down, how many more to go?

He looked at the door. It was badly broken and would no longer close, but at least he could try to put it back in place. With some luck it would not seem too obvious to a passer-by that the place had been broken-in.

Now that the door was back in place, Illya checked that the man’s gun was loaded and began walking into the narrow, dark corridor facing him. He kept the gun in his hand, ready for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, thank you again for reading and for all the love you show me and the fic <3  
> Next chapter on Wednesday!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter's up, I hope you like it :)  
> As always, thank you for all your support <3

Illya walked slowly in the corridor, taking care to be as silent as possible. He was trying to calculate how long it would take for Miss Belmont to be informed of his presence in her hideout. He had been insanely lucky so far. While he was lurking in the street, he had been seen, there was no doubt about that. Also, the noise he had made…

There was only two possible reasons as to why he had not yet an army on his tail. Whether Miss Belmont was busy with a more pressing threat, which meant that Gaby’s mission had been a success, whether she was watching him and biding her time. The second solution seemed more likely to be the right one for Illya. It was just like Miss Belmont to play cat and mouse with her prey. This was infuriating. Illya felt that the situation was slowly slipping out of his control, exactly like the last time he had been near the French she-devil. But not this time. This time, he would maintain an iron-grip on the situation. He would find Napoleon’s cell and get him out, even if he had to fight both Miss Belmont and Victoria’s armies. There was a high probability of death. Even if Napoleon was still alive when Illya got to him, he could be in any state, and it would be even harder to get out of here with a dead weight in his arms.

A few minutes passed, and to Illya they were hours. They were hours of getting lost into strangely empty corridors that went deeper and deeper underground. Illya had tried to keep a mental map of the maze of corridors, but after a few wrong turns he had no idea where he was anymore. He could always try to interrogate one of Belmont’s men, if he found one that spoke English and that would not lie to him and send him right into Belmont’s claws. This was altogether too difficult, and so Illya decided to go on.

Soon after knocking out a distracted guard and opening a heavy iron door, Illya found himself face to face with a flight of stairs. If he climbed up, he had a chance to find Miss Belmont herself, but if he went down– Illya’s musing were cut short by steps. Several men, coming from upstairs, visibly in a hurry. Illya did not need more persuasion and ran downstairs. He was trying to be as silent as possible but failed. It was unlikely that the men coming his way could hear him over their own noise. Still, he was not careful enough. He was dramatically outnumbered, badly disguised and he did not know what could be waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

Breathless, Illya nearly tripped over the last step of the stairs. The corridor in front of him was lit, and now, it was something he recognized! Yes, he had been there before! Those doors he could see in the distance… behind one of those doors there was Napoleon. Illya had no time to rejoice though, as the men’s steps were coming closer and closer.

Were these men chasing him, or did they have another mission? Illya did not care. They were nothing more than a hindrance now, and the best thing he could do was to take them out. He listened carefully. There was echo, but he roughly counted four set of steps. He could take four men. He was Illya Kuryakin, ex-KGB and U.N.C.L.E.’s best. He cocked his gun, and discretion be damned, aimed.

As the first man entered his vision field, Illya fired.

A body crumpled and fell down the stairs, his cry of pain deafened by the gunshot. Of course, the borrowed gun did not have a silencer.

Illya heard a shout and fired blindly two more times. Bullets flew by, barely missing his head. Illya took a few steps back. He was out of reach because of the stairs’ curve, but so were his opponents. They were waiting for him to make a move, he was doing just the same thing. However they had the tactical advantage, and waiting was their best solution.

If they waited long enough, reinforcements would come. Nobody could have missed the shots.

If Illya lost his patience and tried to attack them, they had a better angle to fire.

Yet, Illya was smarter than that. He took a small cylindrical object out of his jacket pocket. He pulled out the ring and threw the stun grenade in the stairs, right where he guessed his enemies’ feet to be.

A loud bang echoed through the whole staircase and corridor. This had been Illya’s worst and best idea so far. He had barely had the time to close his eyes and cover his ears, yet his head was spinning. He willed himself to get up,  _ quick _ ! He ran over to his enemies who had been knocked out by the flash, sound and explosion. Quickly, his aim quite bad, Illya fired three bullets, killing each man. Now that this was done, Illya took a few steps back. He had blood on his trousers, his ears rang and he would soon have a headache. Still, his adrenaline-heightened senses told him that he should be paying attention to the noises coming from the other end of the corridor. He tuned his head just in time to see black-clad silhouettes emerge from a door. He jumped down as the first shots rang.

This was getting serious now.

 

Illya heard steps approaching over the sound of shots. He had to get up and fire, quickly if you please. Yet, if he did so now, he was almost certain to finish with a bullet in his brain. He was lucky to be partially hidden by the wall of the staircase, else he would have been the perfect target, black clothes against light-grey floor. Still, Illya had been trained for those kind of situations, and so would not be deterred. Quick and silent, he took his own U.N.C.L.E. gun out of its holder. He knew this weapon by heart, it was like a part of his arm, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Illya risked a glance up, took his aim and shot. The steps were still coming his way, and Illya shot again. And again. How many were they?

When he looked up again, Illya saw that only one of his opponents was still alive or at least able to fight. He quickly got on his feet and waited for the man to come. They shot both at the same time, and both missed their mark. Illya then decided to discard his gun for the moment, and ran into the man. The two fell on the ground, Illya keeping the upper hand. With a few well-placed hits, he knocked out his adversary, himself nursing only a painful bruise on his left cheekbone.

The corridor was uncharacteristically silent now. Illya took a few precious seconds to reload his gun, better safe than sorry. He wondered why those men had been in that room over there. Something was happening –or had happened– there. Whatever it was, Illya decided to check. He would try all the doors until he found Napoleon.

Gun cocked, Illya walked as silently as possible through the corridor. He threw glances here and .there, taking advantage of the few doors that had bars. They were all empty, as his ill-luck would have had it.

For a few dreadful seconds, as he was walking, Illya began to think. Those thoughts were not the usual  _ am I too late _ ones, they were far worse.  _ What if it is a trap? What if I am exactly where Belmont wants me to be? What if Mr Waverly never finds my corpse? _

Eventually, he got to the door which was nearly at the end of the corridor. It was slightly ajar, though Illya could not see what was inside. There could be more armed men inside. They might be waiting for him, and if he opened the door, they would fire. Illya was ready to fire too. He gently pushed the door, nothing happened. No shout, no shot, nothing.

There must have been something important in the room to justify all these men inside. Illya was hopeful for half a second. He fully opened the door.

Beyond the door was a medium-sized room, its walls painted white. Two neon light tubes bathed the room in a cold light. Illya went in and closed the door. Not that it was a useful protection against guns and goons… Illya had been right to be hopeful.

In the centre of the room, tied to a simple metal chair, there was Napoleon. Cowboy? Whoever Illya had been searching for. Illya noticed many tiny details all at once, now he was sure that yes, it was indeed Napoleon, this hair this face and those eyes those eyes looking at him, puzzled, stunned and there was blood all over his face and neck and shirt.

Illya took a step forward. The movement seemed to wake Napoleon up, who blinked, obviously not believing his eyes.

“What are–”

“I’ve found–”

“–you doing here?”

“–you at last! Na–”

They barely heard each other, talking at the same time, because Illya was in a hurry, because there were things that needed to be said,  _ now– _

“Get out of here before they come back!”

Illya did not finish his sentence. Above his voice had risen this of Napoleon, and why the hell would he say that? It was Illya’s turn to be dumbstruck.

Did Napoleon not know why he was here?

A chill ran down Illya’s spine.

_ Had he not expected to be rescued? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, next one on Sunday! :D  
> Are you happy we got to see Napoleon again? I hope so!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here goes the new chapter! As I type this note, I have 48 hours to hand in the first draft of my thesis... I wish I had an Illya to come save me.   
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

A chill ran down Illya’s spine.

_Had he not expected to be rescued?_

_Well of course he had not expected to be rescued, you fool!_

Illya had no time to look back on his foolish thoughts and conflicted feelings. His brain had yet to register that the man he had searched for, the man for whom he had forsaken Mr Waverly’s orders… that man did not want him here.

At that moment, Illya could have obeyed Napoleon. But he had not come all this way to be ordered around and thrown out like an old sock. At least not before he had told Napoleon the purpose of his presence here.

“No. I’ve come all the way from New York to get you.”

Napoleon seem to ponder Illya’s words for a few seconds. He looked over Illya’s shoulder one more time. “It’s not right. Belmont lieutenant should have come back by now.”

The corridor behind them was eerily silent. It was indeed not normal, especially not with all the noise Illya had made fighting the men. It was clear to Illya that Napoleon had thought that more men would come.

“That’s why you asked me to leave.”

Napoleon nodded. “He got a phone call about half an hour ago. He left in a hurry. He only left me with a few guards…”

“They are all dead now.”

Napoleon smiled again, a smile that ended in a barely visible wince. “I heard that. It should have alerted them.”

“The corridors were quite empty. I was too focused on finding you to notice it but now… I find it strange. There should have been more guards.”

“Something definitely happened then. Something else than you I mean.”

A thousand different thoughts tried to invade Illya’s brain at the same moment. He shushed them all, trying to keep his mind clear. Something else than him… another attack maybe? Was it U.N.C.L.E.? Somebody else?

Illya got closer to Napoleon and said:

“Well, whatever is keeping them upstairs, it will give us time to leave. I will untie you.”

Napoleon smiled, looking grateful but somehow worried.

“All right.” He seemed to lose himself in his thoughts for a few seconds, before asking, “Wait a second, did Waverly send you?”

Illya was taken aback by the question. Was that the most important thing to think about now? Did it really matter? He chose to answer honestly, because it was the best thing to do.

“No. After the last time we saw each other, I flew back to New York. Belmont and Vinciguerra did not have a clue about my identity… I guess I have you to thank for that.”

“Indeed,” nodded Napoleon. “It doesn’t answer my question though.” Napoleon kept glancing at the door. It was clear to Illya that Napoleon was still worried of Belmont’s men coming.

“Yes. Well, in New York, Mr Waverly and I talked about the mission, and I told him you were here, in Paris, and that I knew everything. He told me that it was not U.N.C.L.E.’s problem. I kind of snapped then–”

“What? You know everything… what do you mean by that?” Napoleon’s voice cut right into Illya’s, worried again, but with a hint of horror.

“It’s not important. Anyway, since I thought I, and even U.N.C.L.E., owed you a lot… it was unfair to leave you here. So I did my research, flew to Paris. Here I am now, and I plan to get the both of us out of here soon.”

There, Napoleon smiled genuinely. He looked Illya in the eye, and said:

“And there was I, thinking you hated me since the second we met. Shall we proceed?”

Illya wanted to answer that yes indeed, he had hated, or at least not liked Napoleon at first. He would have also added that it had seemed to be reciprocate. But he said nothing, because this kind of teasing was exactly what had made him want to slap Napoleon’s grin off of his face.

He studied Napoleon’s bounds, which were simple handcuffs fastened behind the chair. Napoleon’s ankles were also restrained by similar cuffs. Illya searched into his bag for the pliers he had brought with him. The cuffs did not last long against it, and soon Napoleon was free. He rubbed his wrists and moved his shoulders, which must have been painful because of their prolonged position. Napoleon gingerly got up, and Illya noticed that he favoured his right leg. Napoleon took a tentative step forward, and held on to the chair not to fall off.

“How long have you been there?” asked Illya.

“A few hours,” answered Napoleon. “I did not keep track of time. Don’t worry, I can walk. I will not be fast though.”

Illya nodded. He had anticipated such problems. Truth be told, he had anticipated much worse. Napoleon could walk, and this was beyond Illya’s hopes. At least now, he would not have to carry Napoleon all the way back to his hotel.

While Napoleon struggled to regain his balance and tried to get his legs to walk properly again, Illya looked around the room. It was nearly empty save for a cupboard. The cupboard’s door was not sturdy enough to hold against Illya’s shoulders, and it opened, creaking. Inside, there were several bottles filled with clear liquid, medical supplies and a few files.

“Those are just drugs Kuryakin. Nothing important.”

Illya turned around. Napoleon was at the door, looking at him.

“Right.”

Napoleon gestured to the corridor. “We should hurry.”

Illya nodded. He walked past Napoleon and picked up a weapon on one of the dead men. He gave it to Napoleon. “You think you can use a gun?”

Napoleon grinned, “Anytime.”

Illya’s own smile was darker, and they started walking. Napoleon was slow, limping and sometimes using the wall to support himself. Blood was still trickling down his face, now mixed with sweat. Maybe, pondered Illya, Napoleon was in a worse shape than he had thought in the beginning. They went on walking, and soon began to climb the staircase. Illya hoped that he would find his way back outside easily.

They walked, chasing after time and being chased by an invisible threat. Each time he looked at him, Illya saw that Napoleon was more and more tired. Finally, they went in an elevator. Illya remembered having been in an elevator the first time he had come here. Maybe this was the way to the parking lot.

Once inside the elevator, Napoleon leaned against the cold wall, eyes closed. His breath was ragged, and his face white as a sheet.

“You okay?” asked Illya.

“I have been better. Seen worse too.”

“I can see you’re injured. Your leg, your head… is there something else?”

Napoleon shook his head. He opened his eyes, and slowly answered:

“The leg wound is old. A few days old. My head… it is a superficial wound. The hairline bleeds easily. I… I have seen worse, I told you. I am tired, that is all. Tired, thirsty… it must be the drugs.”

The elevator was going down in a seemingly endless movement. Illya was keeping an eye on the number, minus ten, minus eleven, minus twelve was listening to Napoleon.

“Do you know what they gave you?”

“Not precisely. Listen Kuryakin, it is not as bad as it looks. Let’s get away from here, I have a bad feeling about this.”

Illya grunted. What exactly were they doing, if not getting away? The elevator jingled. Minus fifteen, last stop. The doors opened, and for once, Illya thought that luck was on his side. They were in the parking lot. The dimly lit, nearly empty, underground parking lot.

Both men climbed out of the elevator. They tried to walk as silently as possible, yet each step was a bouncing echo on the concrete walls. Soon, Illya’s ears picked up another echo. Voices, nearby. He gestured for Napoleon to stop walking, and they waited in the dark. Seconds and a few minutes passed. The parking lot was silent again, and they resumed walking.

As he walked, Illya thought that maybe they should have listened more closely to the silence. There was something clearly amiss there, and they were too close to the outside world to afford a bad choice.

There were only a few cars parked. Most were dark, sleek, exactly like the one in which Illya had travelled. Yet, in his memory, there had been more cars in the parking lot. More light too.

Out of nowhere, a gunshot rang. The sound bounced on the wall. It was impossible for Illya to identify where it had come from. Shit! He jumped down, closely followed by Napoleon.

The bullet hit the wall behind them, a few feet to the left. Quickly, Illya pulled his gun and hid behind a car. Napoleon followed him, his own weapon ready. In the dark environment, their adversaries had the advantage of at least knowing the place. But Illya was the best, and if he believed Miss Belmont’s words… so was Napoleon. As more bullets flew past them, as they tried to aim at invisible enemies, Illya remained hopeful.

Together with Napoleon, they could easily overpower those men. And so the fight began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, thank you so much for your support, I love you!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter, up for your enjoyment!  
> (Also thank you for the lovely comments and kudos!)

Miss Belmont’s henchmen had lost the surprise effect, but Illya and Napoleon were still outnumbered. The two parties circled each other for a few seconds, hiding behind a car, tentatively sneaking out to aim a shot.

Illya knew that the longer the fight went, the more likely it was for Belmont’s men to get reinforcements. They knew this too. It was in Illya’s interest to end the fight quickly then.

Illya quickly counted the men’s shadows. Six or seven. He threw a sideways glance at Napoleon. Even in the darkness of the parking lot, Illya did not miss the glow of Napoleon’s eyes. He wondered for a second if it was the drugs’ effect or something else. Meanwhile, a man aimed his gun at Illya and fired.

Illya felt the pain before he heard the shot. The bullet had barely grazed his side, not doing too much damage, but it still hurt like hell. Another shot rang, much closer to Illya this time. A bullet flew past him, missing him out of sheer luck. This was when Illya realised that he did not have his gun anymore. He must have dropped it when the bullet had hit him. Illya patted the floor around him, trying to find his gun, as it was too dark to see.

In the meantime, Illya saw Napoleon crawl past him and fire. Fire, out in the open. Illya heard shouts of pain. He found his gun just when Napoleon crawled back into the cover of the car.

“I took three out,” whispered Napoleon.

“Great job.”

Napoleon opened his mouth as if to say something, but remained silent. Illya found the situation stranger by the minute. Had he not known better, he would have thought the place deserted. Empty. He fired, and an enemy fell. If he had counted right, there were only two or three more. He fired again and again. Illya heard two bodies fall, and waited.

He and Napoleon were safely hidden behind a now damaged, once expensive black car. They waited until they were sure that nothing moved. Illya stood up, and suppressed a wince of pain. He felt the blood seeping through his clothes.

Napoleon, who was standing up too and leaning against the car, asked:

“Are you okay? You were shot.”

“It is a superficial wound. I hope it will not bleed too much, but if we hurry, it should be okay. Let’s go.”

Napoleon nodded. His trust in Illya was evident, and this felt disturbingly right. They could see the exit now, a curved path going up, big enough for a large car. It was so close to them… they began to walking at a fast pace towards this promise of safety.

Hurried as they were, neither of them noticed the silent shadow tiptoeing after them. Illya only heard a crashing sound, and saw Napoleon fall at his side. He turned around, quick as a lightning bolt, only to be hit square in the chest with an iron bar.

Illya nearly fell down, his breath taken away. But no. No, he had to fight. He grappled the man’s arms and head-butted him. It was not his most intelligent idea, as it made him dizzy, but now the man was unconscious. Illya took the iron bar and hit him several times all over the body, hearing a few bones crack. He was breathless, and his chest hurt like hell. His adrenaline level was becoming low again, and he let the iron bar fall to the floor.

Illya fell too, on his knees, beside Napoleon. He checked for his vital signs, and thank God Napoleon’s heart was beating. Thank God he was breathing. A small puddle of blood was cooling where Napoleon’s head had hit the floor. Illya also noticed a thin red line trickling down Napoleon’s lips. He felt panic rise inside him, and picked up the unresponsive body.

They had been so close to getting out… so close…

Illya secured his grip on Napoleon and began to run towards the exit.

Run.

Run, it was the only thought in Illya's head. It was the reason he breathed, it was his lifeblood. So he ran, he ran, carrying Napoleon like one would a bride. He ran, not believing his luck. He ran along the curved exit road, ran until he was out of the hideout.

He had made it, had he not?

Illya carried Napoleon’s body in the streets, not caring for the furtive glances thrown at him.

The sky was as black as a city's sky can ever be. How long had he been in there? What had happened to Miss Belmont? How long until she noticed the dead bodies? How long did he have until she started looking for him?

Napoleon was safely wrapped in Illya's jacket, his unresponsive body heavier by the minute. Illya, still high on adrenaline, was overwhelmed by sensations. His own blood drying on his forehead, sticking to his hair. Napoleon's clammy skin under his fingers. His own ragged breath. The wind on his face, carrying the stink of the city.

For long minutes, Illya wandered aimlessly in the streets. Where was his hotel again? Were Belmont's men on his heels, at a window, pointing a rifle at his temple?

Why had he made this choice?

Illya turned left, his grip tightening on Napoleon. Each step on the boulevard was more difficult than the previous one. Illya was strong, he was tough, the Russian way, and proud of it. Yet he felt as if he had reached his limit. His blood was still seeping through his wound, leaving a tiny dotted trail behind him, and his chest hurt like hell.

Illya was in so much pain that he was not even angry anymore.

On the contrary, he felt drained, more than he should have been. If he had slept the previous evening... Napoleon would have been dead by now. There was no point dwelling on this. He had made the right choice.

Illya stopped walking. He sat down on the sidewalk. He was too tired for the moment. The dark, early morning was chilly, and there were more and more people passing him by. He touched Napoleon's forehead. Burning, and yet the hand he was holding was so cold. Still alive. Hold on Cowboy... Don't die on me yet.

Illya wanted to call Mr Waverly. He genuinely wanted to ask for help. Maybe he should call a doctor first... That was a good idea. Call a doctor for Napoleon. Illya would look at his own injuries once Napoleon had been taken care of. They were not that serious. After, after they would sleep. He would slip between the covers, his body close to Napoleon's, sharing body warmth. He would wait for Napoleon to wake up, He would wait for Gaby to worry for him and find him. Where was Gaby now? Was she even still alive?

An idea suddenly struck him.

Illya still had his U.N.C.L.E. tech with him. Maybe Mr Waverly had already fired him, yet he could try... calling Gaby. It was not a sign of weakness. She was his partner. Partners looked out for each other. They were the two side of a same coin. She would come to his help...

Illya got up again. Once safe in his hotel, he would call Gaby. He picked up Napoleon's body, and stopped the first person he found, a mousy-looking man, showing him the address on the hotel's receipt. The man eyed him curiously, and made several gestures with his arms while giving directions. The man's French was too fast for Illya to understand it, but with the gestures, he understood turn left, then right, left again then up ahead for a long time. He mumbled his thanks and started up again.

He turned left, as lost as he had been before. He turned right, the sun was getting up, tinting the sky a greyish pink. Illya was now at the end of a small, narrow street that ended on a beautiful boulevard. He was greeted by the noise of many cars. He blinked once or twice, trying to chase the bright colourful spots off his eyes. There was an axe splitting the back of his head in two.

He took one step in the boulevard, two steps, then stumbled. The world was spinning around him, he was falling. Napoleon was falling with him. Illya was unconscious before his head hit the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, confession time:  
> This chapter is where it all went wrong.  
> In my original July 2016 plan, drafted in the middle of a Camp NaNo during which I had already written in two weeks a then 45k long The Great Escape AU "Hoping is not an Advantage" (a now 105k long monster I should definitely post) and another Great Escape 10k-ish fic which I posted back then... Hooked Up, then named "Prostitution AU WIP" was supposed to end there. Napoleon died in Illya's arms, cue the tragic ending. Regrets, murder rampage and the frustration of never having a chance together because they had been too stupid and caught up in events. No explanations either, just a hard break. An ending worthy of me: TRAGEDY. But no. As I wrote the first few chapters in July, August and September... all went well according to plan. And something along autumn 2016, Napoleon refused to die. It flowed so naturally from my fingers to the keyboard that I kept it and changed my plans. At the end, when the whole fic was finished, I hated it. I hated to have lost control over my planning, over my characters, over my writing. I threw it in a closet and forgot about it.  
> I forgot about it until, stuck in a writer's block for my current big project (a Final Fantasy XII epic alternate universe) I read it again. I was at a friend's place, we had drunk a lot and watched Conjuring. I could not sleep, and read the whole fic in a night. Then I took a decision. A decision I had already started wording to the loveliest friend and beta out there, [Mad_Amethyst](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Amethyst), a few times. Back then, it had been a "I should publish it one day, get over it once and for all, or write a sequel!" thrown in a conversation and forgotten a few minutes later. Yet, surprisingly, when I read the fic again, I enjoyed it. Worst, I enjoyed the changes. The 32 chapters that had not supposed to be there. I corrected mistakes, added a few things here and there, but I found it not worthy of the hate I had projected onto it. And so I posted it.  
> And so you read it.  
> And please believe me when I tell you how much your support means to me. By publishing this fic, and seeing it bring you joy, feels, frustration, all I wanted to convey... when I read your theories... It makes me happy I managed to get over my own shortcomings. It helped me accept the good this fic did for me, even if at the time, it had been one of the hardest blows to my writing-life. 
> 
> Sorry for the novel-lenght of this, and thank you again.  
> I love you, see you on Sunday,  
> Sweety.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter, the first chapter of the damned part of the fic, enjoy!

Illya was swimming. No, not really, because swimming involved movement, and Illya was immobile. He could not move his limbs, even if he tried too. He barely felt them. He was floating then. Floating in a thick fog. This fog was giving him a headache, swirling around him, too white. If his eyes had been open, Illya would have closed them to escape the fog.

His headache was becoming worse and worse as time ticked by. Illya was also beginning to feel other sensations, tiny needles in his side, pressure on his chest. Sometimes, spots of light would pierce through the fog, and dance behind his eyelids. Some other times, Illya imagined sounds that would have been voices.

Yet, each time his mind woke up, he was floating, unmoving, within a thick white fog. And each time he fell back to sleep.

 

Only when the needles became more painful did Illya properly wake up. The white fog tore itself slowly, and the lights became brighter. The sounds clearer too, no longer a background buzz in his ears.

Illya opened his eyes, blinded by the light. He tried to see, closed them again, but this time he would not fall back to sleep. His headache had receded, but his whole body felt numb and slightly painful at the same time.

Before he had time to think, take in his surroundings or breathe, someone was at his side. The silhouette, a woman if Illya was to judge by the waist, was touching him, fiddling with objects while talking with a smooth, calm voice.

It took Illya some time to figure out the words and sentences. At least, the woman was speaking English. Was he still in Paris?

Asking himself this question sent dozens of other ones in his mouth.

Where was he?

What happened?

_ Who found me? _

_ Where is Napoleon? _

_ Why can’t I see him? _

Illya opened his mouth to ask one of those questions, but too many were fighting on the tip of his tongue, and his mouth felt strange, heavy. In the end, the sound that came out of his mouth was more a moan than anything else.

The woman –was she a nurse? – Lightly touched his shoulder and pushed him back into the mattress. Illya’s surroundings were becoming clearer. He could see the walls, white, and the sheets, white… the woman’s face, stern but soft.

“Shh… you’ve just woken up, it might not be a good idea to talk now. Rest.”

Illya did not want to obey the woman – he had decided she was a nurse, she was clothed like a nurse– as he had too many questions, but his head was heavy, so heavy… he closed his eyes.

For the next few minutes Illya rested, conscious but eyes closed, simply breathing and listening to the voices and humming and beeping of faraway machines. Little by little, his head felt better, and when he opened his eyes again, he clearly saw the hospital room. He saw his hands on the sheets, a catheter in the right one.

The nurse was not in the room anymore. Had Illya felt strong enough, he would have gotten up from the bed and tried to find some information. Yet, he felt that his body was not ready for that… moreover, if he was still in enemy territory, he would not be able to fight in such a state.

Was he safe? How could he know? He was not tied to the bed, and took it as a clear sign that he was not Miss Belmont or Victoria’s guest. Maybe he was in a hospital in Paris. Maybe some altruistic soul had found him and Napoleon, and had brought them here.

Illya did not know if it was such a good thing. He could be safe for the moment, but how would he go home? How would he explain to Mr Waverly… and where was Napoleon? Was he even still alive?

Illya remembered the cold yet burning skin, the blood. He remembered carrying Napoleon’s body in the dark streets… since when had he started to care?

_ And there was I, thinking you hated me since the second we met. _

What had been the triggering factors? Why had Illya wanted to know Napoleon better, why had he wanted to… to… he did not even know what he had wanted to do.

Had he fallen prey to Napoleon’s charms? No. Napoleon was annoying when charming.

His looks then? No. He had barely seen Napoleon.

When, between the few days they had begrudgingly spent together and the moment Illya had decided to disobey, when had Napoleon won Illya’s respect?

Illya sighed. He needed to reorder his thoughts. The most important thing was to learn where he was. When he would know, he would ask for Napoleon.

He tried to sit up, to look at the slightly open door. Stars danced in front of his eyes, and his head fell back onto the cushion. That had not been a good idea. Yet, his movement must have been caught by the ever-watchful eye of a nurse, because one of them came in his room a few seconds later.

This nurse was not the same as the other time, and she smiled when she saw Illya. She looked at a file she was holding, and got closer to the bed.

“Good afternoon sir, how are you feeling today?”

Illya would not answer this question. It was not important.

“Where am I?”

The nurse’s smile broadened, and she answered:

“I take that as a good sign. Before I answer you, please, tell me your name, and today’s date.”

Illya huffed. From the look in the nurse’s eyes, she would not yield and he would get nothing from her if he did not comply.

He got on with the formalities less than happily, and looked expectantly at the nurse. She got even closer, and began to check his pulse, blood pressure, still not answering him. He had to be patient, and he hated that. Finally, she seemed satisfied, and took a few steps back to write down things on her file.

“Well, Mr Kuryakin, everything is in order. You are recovering quite well, and now that my job is done, I can answer you. You are in U.N.C.L.E.’s New York medical facility. You were transferred from Paris a week ago.”

Safe. Safe, he was safe. Someone had helped him, and Mr Waverly… Illya felt so relieved. A short-live relief, yes, but a relief nonetheless. He was safe. How? And what about…

“What who happened brought me here and with me was there someone?”

The nurse smiled at his outburst.

She walked to the door and said, “I do not know everything Mr Kuryakin, but someone does. And that someone wants to see you.”

She left. Illya was puzzled by her answer. He heard, muffled by the closed door:

“He is a bit disoriented, and still weak. You have fifteen minutes, but remember he needs his rest.”

The door opened again, and Illya would have recognized the person who entered anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, thank you so much for your love and support, and until Wednesday!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, who dis?  
> Enjoy (there are news at the end!)

If Illya had had any doubt about where he was, they all disappeared upon seeing Gaby. If she was there… everything would be okay.

Gaby’s smile when she saw him was radiant, and he answered with one of his own.

“You are awake, finally!” She got closer to the bed, and sat on a nearby chair. “Between you being asleep and the nurses wandering about, I thought I would never see you.”

“Stop being falsely modest Gaby.”

She laughed, a most welcome sound to Illya’s ears. It felt so good to be reunited with his partner, so right. Besides, she seemed in perfect health. He wanted to ask her how had gone her mission in Italy, and supposed that she was just as impatient to boast about it, but there were more pressing matters. He ignored if Gaby knew that he had disobeyed Mr Waverly. If he was indeed in an U.N.C.L.E. medical facility, maybe Mr Waverly had not yet fired him.

Gaby was looking at him with a mischievous gleam in her eye, as if waiting for a question. Finally, she spoke again:

“I guess you would want some explanation as to how you suddenly found yourself in this bed, am I right?”

Illya nodded. If there was someone he trusted to answer truthfully his question, it was Gaby. She smiled, and cleared her throat.

“We have only fifteen minutes, so I will give you the short version.”

Gaby clapped her hands, as if she did not already have Illya’s full attention.

“So, as you already know, I was in Italy those last few days. I picked up the Vinciguerra mission where you had left it,” Illya shot her a dark look. It was not his fault if nothing had gone according to plan in Italy. “Oh do not look at me like that Mr Grumpy Russian. You did a very good job, and I am not being sarcastic. Anyway, I did my job, destroyed the labs but I could not put a bullet between the alpha bitch’s eyes. She was already gone by the time I finished with the labs. I returned to New York, expecting a fine dinner and a warm bath, but guess what?”

“Mr Waverly? He sent you to Paris to find me?”

“Yes, bravo. He hoped that I would find you before you did anything stupid. Sadly, getting across the Atlantic is a slow process, and I was too late. I barely had to track you down to find the mess you left behind.”

Illya laughed. It sent sparks of pain down his chest, but imagining the state of Belmont’s hideout and Gaby being there, searching for him, was at the same time funny and comforting. She laughed with him, before going on:

“But you were not at Belmont’s, and as I followed the bloodstains and bodies, asking innocent bystanders–”

“There was something,” Illya cut her. Something that had not seemed right when he had been in Paris, something that sounded even more wrong now.

“Yes?”

Why had the hideout been so empty? Where had been Miss Belmont? He should never have gotten out of there alive.

“When I was in Paris, at Belmont’s, it was empty. Nearly so. Do you know what happened?”

Gaby nodded, and answered, “From the information I gathered there, she took most of her ‘army’ and fled to a secluded hiding spot. She was afraid that, as we had attacked the Vinciguerras, she would be next on our list.”

“That explains the emptiness.” It was logic. Belmont and Vinciguerra were allies. Moreover, they had thought that Napoleon worked for U.N.C.L.E., and Belmont holding Napoleon prisoner… yet it was logic.

“Yes. She only left no more than a few guards, and believe me Illya you were really lucky. You would never have made it otherwise. Anyway, I did not find you right away, but I have ears and eyes everywhere. The Paris Unit of U.N.C.L.E. helped me, and we found you in a local hospital. A man had found you at dawn, unconscious, lying on the sidewalk of a boulevard–”

“There was someone with me, right? I was not alone when they found me?!”

Illya’s mind was foggy. He did not remember well what had happened after he had fled from the hideout. He remembered the dark streets and carrying Napoleon, but nothing else.

“Patience Illya, I was just getting there. You were indeed not alone, do not worry, and yes, he is here. Napoleon Solo is here.”

Illya breathed out and closed his eyes. He had not realised how anxious he had been to hear those few words. Napoleon was safe too. He had not taken all those risks for nothing. He had succeeded.

“Gaby, do you know how he is?”

“He has not woken up yet. I do not know why.”

Illya did not answer. He was confused by all the information Gaby had given him. He hoped to god that Napoleon was all right. If he had not woken up yet, that meant he was alive. It had to mean this. The nurse had told him earlier that he had been transferred a week ago…

Gaby got up from her chair, and took Illya’s hand in hers. She looked more serious now. “You look worried. Tell me, is there anything else on your mind?”

“Yes. How long was I out? What are my injuries? The nurse was quite evasive…”

“You were unconscious for about one week and a half. You had a few cracked ribs, and a bullet grazed your side. The most grievous injury was on your skull. The doctors say that it occurred when your head hit the pavement. You were lucky no bone broke.”

“I guess I was,” smiled Illya.

He would have asked a lot more questions, but the nurse chose that exact moment to come back in.

“Sorry to interrupt you, but Mr Kuryakin needs to rest. You can come back to see him tomorrow.”

Gaby stood up, and kissed Illya’s cheek. She whispered, “I will try to fish for some information on your Mr Solo. I look forward to meet him. A man you would risk your career for must be quite worthy of interest.”

She winked as she left under the nurse’s stern gaze, and Illya closed his eyes.

He was safe.

Napoleon was alive.

Everything was going to be okay, and he just had to close his eyes and heal now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first of all thank you for reading and for all of your support and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.  
> (OMG Sweety is back at it with the unending end-notes! NOooooooooOOOOooOOO!) I promise this will be short:  
> I have started working on a sequel. *pen drop*


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter, enjoy!

Over the next few days, Illya felt better. His chest was less painful, and the nurses allowed him to get up from his bed to shower. Illya trusted his body to heal quickly. It had always done so before, and all it took was rest.

Yet, resting all day was driving Illya mad. He wanted to get out, he hated doctors. He wanted to see Gaby, but she could not come every day, because she still had a job…

Truth be told, Illya was afraid.

Mr Waverly had asked Gaby to bring him home, and they had not abandoned Napoleon behind, and Illya was beyond grateful for that. He was grateful but he knew that Mr Waverly would ask him to answer for his actions. He had disobeyed, put himself and U.N.C.L.E. in danger. There would be retribution. There had to be some, and Illya was prepared to face it… if he had to. When he had been searching for Napoleon, he had not even been sure he would come back home alive, so the prospect of punishment had not been frightening. Now, in the loneliness of his hospital room, the uncertainty kept gnawing at him. What would happen to him? Would Mr Waverly fire him? Illya had nowhere to go. He had nothing here, nothing but U.N.C.L.E. and all his acquaintances, his friends, they were all colleagues. If he was fired Gaby would get a new partner, and she would get along with them, she liked people… If he was fired, Illya would be all alone, with nothing to do but return to the USSR, return to the KGB. He was not even sure he would be welcome there…

The next time Illya saw Gaby, he damned his pride and asked her if he still belonged here. He was recovering, and so anxious to know.

“Of course, you are still part of U.N.C.L.E.! Who told you such a thing?”

Illya lowered his eyes. He did not want for Gaby to make fun of him, but he found himself so ridiculous… “I thought that, with what I did, Mr Waverly would not want me anymore. He would fire me…”

Gaby smiled, and looked at him straight in the eye.

“Mr Waverly was very angry, I will not lie to you. But he is not an idiot. You are his very best agent Illya, and thus he is willing to forgive you, even when you do something as stupid as you did.”

Illya was having a hard time believing her. She went on: “Of course, he wants to speak to you as soon as you are on your feet. But do not worry, it will just be an unpleasant experience. You have lived worse. You will live worse.” If she said so… Gaby seemed so sure of herself, so optimist that she managed to comfort Illya a little bit.

Gaby then fished for something in her purse. She showed it proudly to Illya. It was a stack of files, and of course he had no idea what was written on them.

“I told you I would search for information on Mr Napoleon Solo! So I sneaked into the surgeon’s office this morning, and, using my super-spy talents, I got this! His full medical file!”

“You are the best Gaby.”

“Thanks. Do you want to read it? Or maybe you would prefer that I translated the medico-babble to you?”

He nodded. She was right in her implicit insult, he was not a scientist and even less a doctor.

“So, the hospital in Paris diagnosed a traumatic brain injury, more precisely a cerebral contusion–”

“When we got attacked, a man hit him behind the head with a club. The same man who cracked my ribs. Napoleon was unconscious after that.”

“Sounds logical to me. He was indeed unconscious when you were found, like you. The problem, if I read that correctly, is that he has not awoken from his coma yet. He is unresponsive to quite a lot of stimuli…” she took another file, “in comparison you were livelier, and yes, I also borrowed your files. Figured out you would want to have more details.” Gaby took a breath, not giving Illya time to answer. She went on: “Anyway, he had a skull fracture because of the blow, and the doctors think that the important amount of drugs in his system did not help him in the beginning.” She then read diagonally two pages and discarded them: “There is the list of all his superficial injuries and blows, mainly resulting from torture, oh, and he had a cracked tibia too. This man is though…”

This list was making Illya uneasy. He had had his fair share of injuries, but all he could remember was Napoleon, in the elevator, brushing off his concerns…  _ it is not as bad as it looks. _ Did Napoleon have any idea of the extent of his injuries? Illya wondered if he had some kind of hero complex. He was not listening to Gaby anymore. A dark thin thread of thought was spreading through his brain. Maybe Napoleon had known about his injuries. Maybe he had not wanted Illya to worry because he was not used to it. Maybe he had no hero complex… maybe he was nice because nobody else–

“Hey! Are you listening to what I am saying?” Gaby snapped her finger in front of Illya’s eyes.

“Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts.”

Gaby pouted, clearly mocking him. “I noticed. If you are not interested anymore…”

“No, please go on.”

“All right. So, I was saying that I should be on my way. Mr Waverly sent me to a mission in Germany, and I asked for the right to drop by on my way to the airport, and now I am late. I leave you your own medical file, and I will put Mr Solo’s back in place.”

“Thank you Gaby. I will miss you…”

“I, however, will not miss you. I should be back in a week or so, and you should be discharged by then, so I want a welcome committee.”

Gaby kissed him on the cheek and stood up. Illya answered “It’s a deal,” as she left the room. Once out of the hospital, he would clean his flat, and when she would get back, he would order a good dinner for two. There was nothing like a cosy evening at home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, thank you so much for your support as always!  
> However, important info for you: I might not be posting on Wednesday, I am off to Spain for a larp and so might not have access to my phone on Wednesday evening. I will try though, put the chapter in drafts and try to upload it. Cross your fingers so that I have enough signal!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter? OMG! Enjoy!

The first days of Gaby’s week of absence passed slowly for Illya. He kept asking the nurses for news of Napoleon, but they were always evasive, when they answered at all. Had he been paranoid, he would have thought they were hiding him something.

Still, Illya had no time to be paranoid today, as he was supposed to meet Mr Waverly at ten AM. He was to be discharged that evening, and Mr Waverly had insisted on seeing him. Even if Gaby’s comforting words had soothed his insecurities, Illya was still a tiny bit afraid of his boss’s reaction.

Illya put on his clothes slowly, enjoying the feeling of the familiar fabric on his skin. It felt good to discard the impersonal, impractical hospital gowns. He could face the world with proper clothes. He could face the world, standing up, cut-off from IVs and catheters. Mr Waverly had waited, he had respected Illya’s dignity. For that, Illya was grateful.

Mr Waverly had insisted to meet Illya in the medical facility’s cafeteria. In his small white room, he would have felt trapped. The cafeteria was neutral territory. Illya was grateful for that.

The cafeteria was on the first floor of the facility, and Illya decided to take the steps. He was weak, he was tired and could see it on his body, but he would not take the elevator. He was healing, and he respected his body. He would walk. He would climb. Besides, Illya was apprehensive to get into an elevator. If there were mirror walls in this elevator, would he see a ghost? A smiling ghost, _I have seen_ _worse_ , _it is not as bad as it looks._ Illya looked at the elevator’s doors. After meeting Mr Waverly, if it went well, he would try to see Napoleon. He could walk, he could leave his room and nothing would stop him now.

It smelled like coffee. It smelled a little bit like sugar too, and there was a constant buzzing of conversations. The smells, the sounds, Illya noticed them when he was still in the stairs. They were the outside world, invading his sterile environment. This was a welcomed invasion. Illya briefly closed his eyes as he stepped into the cafeteria.

Illya spotted Mr Waverly almost at once. He was reading a newspaper and lazily stirring his coffee cup. As sharply dressed as ever, sporting the same frown. Illya took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and steadily walked through the cafeteria. He had made the right choice, he knew it, and was ready to take full blame. He was ready to defend himself, to protect Napoleon.

“Good morning Sir.” Illya was as ready as he would ever be, and he held Mr Waverly’s gaze, not faltering, as the latter answered:

“Good morning Mr Kuryakin. Please sit down.”

Illya obeyed, more than a little bit nervous. Mr Waverly folded his newspaper but said nothing, simply looking at Illya. Illya too would say nothing. He was bent on waiting, not wanting to give Mr Waverly any kind of satisfaction. Illya could almost hear time passing. He waited, waited until Mr Waverly smiled at him. A sincere smile.

“You seem to be doing well. I am glad Gaby found you in time.”

What game was Mr Waverly playing? Illya was puzzled. He could not decide if Mr Waverly was genuinely concerned for him, or if he was just playing nice for diplomacy’s sake. Worse, when had Illya started to question Mr Waverly? He had always seen his boss as a kind, human man, trustworthy. He had been glad to work for him, it was a nice change when compared to the KGB. Yet meeting Napoleon had changed everything. Illya had begun to be wary, unsure of his boss. Maybe, everything could have happened differently if he had trusted Mr Waverly. Finally, he answered:

“I am well Sir. Still, it was not Gaby who found me.”

“That’s a detail Mr Kuryakin. I sent her to bring you back, and she did her job.”

No. There was no hidden meaning behind Mr Waverly’s words. He was right, Illya should not dwell on details. Well then, he would get straight to the point, if Mr Waverly did not do so before him. Illya was thinking about what to say, which question to ask, something less obvious than  _ so, am I fired? _ Something less hopeful than  _ am I still part of U.N.C.L.E.? _

“You wanted to speak to me, Sir?”

“Yes. As you probably already know, Miss Teller’s mission in Italy was a success. The scientific facility was destroyed and Miss Teller was able to find the blueprints of the weapons.”

“I am glad to know that.”

“You are lucky she was on time for her mission, else I could not have sent her to find you. You were lucky she destroyed the facility a little bit earlier than scheduled, else you would have been face to face with an army. You would never have gotten out of there alive.” Mr Waverly’s voice was harsh, authoritative. It was clear that he wanted Illya to realize that his choice had not been trivial at all. Illya did not answer. Mr Waverly looked intently at him, waiting an answer. Illya still did not speak. He would not give in, he had made the right choice. But what could he say?

“You realise that what you did was thoughtless, Mr Kuryakin?”

Mr Waverly’s answer left no room for argument. He did not want Illya to justify himself, which was strange. Illya had expected to have to fight, to have to explain himself.

“Yes sir.”

“Leaving New York without telling anybody, trying to infiltrate Miss Belmont. How could you think that I would not know about your departure? Did you think that I would be stupid enough to–”

“No, Sir. At the time… it was the only choice I could make. I would not have left Napoleon to die.”

“I know that. I know you had your reasons for acting as you did. I will also put an end to you suffering, Mr Kuryakin. I will not fire you. You can breathe now.”

Illya released the breath he had indeed been holding. It feel unrealistically good to be certain of his fate. It felt good to still be an agent. Still, he was wondering which arguments Gaby had used to make Mr Waverly change his mind… yet Mr Waverly must have read Illya’s own mind, as he said:

“Oh no, Miss Teller did not made me change my mind. She did barge into my office telling me that I had her resignation if, I quote, I dared to fire Mr Kuryakin. I told her that I had already made up my mind on the subject, and thus needed neither her advice nor her resignation. She was unconvinced at first, but she is still here so…”

Illya did not know whether to laugh or stay dumbstruck. This was just… so Gaby. He only had to close his eyes to picture Gaby bursting into Mr Waverly’s office, eyes on fire and adamant about her decision. He smiled. Upon seeing this, Mr Waverly stifled an uncharacteristic laughter, and went on:

“You partnership with Miss Teller is the best thing that happened to U.N.C.L.E. I cannot afford to lose it.”

Illya did not know what to answer. He felt proud, but knew it was misplaced. Also, it puzzled him that Mr Waverly would not punish him at all. He was anxious to press the matter. Mr Waverly, still smiling, began talking again:

“I heard you are being discharged later today. I hope your week of rest helped you think about your actions. What you did is wrong, it could have had grave consequences and I want to be sure you understand that.”

He was not smiling anymore, but looked at Illya straight in the eye. Illya swallowed.

“Yes Sir.”

“I cannot take actions against you, for one reason. I have, and accept my responsibilities in what happened.”

It was high time Mr Waverly realized that! Yet Illya could not say this. He had barely avoided being fired, he would not be disrespectful now.

“I am sorry Sir, but I am not sure I understand you.”

“I should have given you more information. I pushed your trust too far, and who was I to expect you would follow my orders blindly any longer? My hands were, and still are tied. I cannot yet talk about it, but I am sure you understand.”

“I do Sir.”

“Very well. You are off active duty for two weeks, I want to be certain that you are correctly healed before going on a mission again. Take your time and rest. I also scheduled you to take a few physical ability tests at the end of your weeks of rest. You will be notified by the medical staff.”

“Yes Sir.”

Mr Waverly got up from his chair. Illya was relieved that their meeting had gone so well. On his way out, Mr Waverly put a hand on Illya’s shoulder and said, his voice lowered to a whisper:

“By the way, Mr Solo is in room 225, aisle B. Have a good day Mr Kuryakin.”

He was gone before Illya could react.

Illya stayed in the cafeteria for five minutes, processing the information. Why had Mr Waverly said that to him? One day, he brushed off Napoleon’s fate as if he was an expendable pawn, another day he… Illya definitely did not understand him. He stored the information safely in his brain, room 225, aisle B. Illya too was in aisle B, room 167. This evening, if he had time, and he would find time, he would pay Napoleon a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it seems I could post it in time and had enough signal! Hallelujah! Thank you once again for your love and support :)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I am barely back from the larp, and way too tired to function. Thank the stars for drafts!

Illya was bored to hell and quite angry when the afternoon ended. He had a very short patience when doctors were concerned. He quickly had had enough of white coats poking at him, lecturing him. He took small comfort in the knowledge that they were as afraid of him as he hated them. Finally, he was given a long list of medicine to take and the schedule for his tests. The sky was already dark outside, but Illya did not give in to the call of home. Room 225 was on the second floor of the facility.

Illya quickly climbed the stairs, and hailed the first nurse he saw, asking for number 225. She nicely showed him the way, and Illya thanked her, remembering not to glare.

When he got in front of the door, Illya had a moment of hesitation. He had tried his best not to imagine what awaited him beyond, but he somehow dreaded to see Napoleon. What if he had changed? What if he was awake? Illya put his hand on the doorknob. He breathed in and out twice, pushed the door open.

The room was smaller than the one in which Illya had stayed. It had the same walls, the same bed, the same light grey linoleum floor covering. In the bed, Napoleon seemed to be sleeping. His eyes were closed, and he was wired to several machines. IV bags, a tube of oxygen through his nose… against a wall, a monitor regularly beeped in time with Napoleon’s heartbeat. Even pierced by this sound, the room was crushed under a heavy silence.

Illya walked to Napoleon’s bed. He was towering above the sleeping form, unable to say anything.

Napoleon did not look fragile. He did not look like a glass doll hovering between life and death.

Someone had washed Napoleon’s hair and dressed his wounds, the white bandage contrasting with the dark hair. Illya could not bring himself to touch Napoleon. He imagined that when someone went to see a friend, a relative who was in a coma, they talked to them. Took their hands and tried to communicate some love, some human warmth.

Was Napoleon’s skin cold, or hot? Could he feel Illya’s presence? Illya opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say.

The room had a tiny window, and the setting sun was casting a warm glow inside. Illya wondered if Napoleon could feel the sun. He was uneasy, nearly nauseous.

Illya then left the room, closing silently the door behind him. In the corridor, a nurse sent him a compassionate glance. He walked to the stairs and quickly left the medical facility.

Once outside, he breathed in the polluted air of New York and combed a hand through his hair. He was feeling better. He did not understand why being in Napoleon’s room had made him feel so unwell. As he took a cab back home, Illya decided not to dwell on this. He would visit Napoleon again during the week, and in the meantime he had much to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't keep long chapters, I had to come back to shorties! I hope you liked it, see you on Wednesday!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter, one day late... I am sorry, sincerely. Thank you so much for all of your support.

The first day, Illya slept until noon. He did not remember his dreams, which was a good thing. He then spent a long time under the shower, and began a chess game against himself, which he did not finish.

When he got hungry, he realised that his cupboards and his fridge were nearly empty. The only food left were coffee and alcohol, but they were not the kind of nourishing food the doctors had advised him to eat. He ordered takeaway and ate it while listening to the radio. He finished his chess game, decided he had won and went to sleep.

That day, he had been so busy living and relaxing that he had barely thought about Napoleon. The thought hit him right when he switched off his bedside lamp. It felt strange. When he had been searching for him, Illya had been constantly thinking about Napoleon. When he had been in the hospital, Illya had often wondered about Napoleon’s health, his fate. Now… now would the certainty that Napoleon was safe, would Illya’s own normal life prevent him from caring? And when had he started caring?

As he fell asleep, Illya decided to visit Napoleon the next day. He would try to stay longer in the room, and think about the reason why he had been so uncomfortable there the first time.

The next morning, when Illya woke up, he did some light exercise after his breakfast, such as the doctors had suggested. His muscles needed to get used to working again, and exercising was overall a nice activity, that left Illya feeling refreshed and alive. He showered, got clothed and left his flat.

On his ride to the medical facility, Illya tried to recall what he had thought when he had seen Napoleon the other day. He tried to understand why he had felt that way, but could not pinpoint the reason. In his mind, he tried to eliminate the different causes. Could it be the room? No, there was no reason for the room to be the cause. It was sterile, impersonal, it smelled like medicine, but it was normal. Maybe the machines then. They were impressive, keeping the body alive, bringing sugar and oxygen, calculating the heartbeat, the blood pressure… What was human life’s worth if it could be summed up to those machines? Yet Illya was not afraid of metal and plastic and wires. Maybe it was Napoleon that had made him uncomfortable. He was like a wax statue, artificially alive and unaware of everything around him. He was not vulnerable though, and Illya could not bring himself to think less of him because of his condition. That left only one element in the room.

Illya himself.

Illya had been so deep in his thoughts that he had not realised that he was now standing in front of the medical facility. He went inside, found his way to room 225 and did not even pause at the door. So he was the problem…

Nothing had changed since his last visit. The machines were the same, delivering clear liquid drop by drop into Napoleon’s veins. The monitor was beeping, and Napoleon had not moved by an inch. Illya was in the middle of the room, standing straight, arms at his sides.  

It was clear to him, now, why he was the problem. He did not know what to do with his body, here in this small room. Inside of him, Illya did not know why he went there, what force drove him to come back. Something was calling to him here, yet Illya did not speak its language, and so he did not really understand the call. It was like a string, coming from the pit of his stomach, tied to Napoleon’s bed. It did not feel like duty. It felt better than duty, but at the same time it was a sickening feeling. Illya had the impression that when he stepped into the room, someone was waiting for him to do something, but he had no idea what.

No words came to his mouth, would it have been worse if Napoleon had been awake?

Illya did not move. As if waiting for Napoleon to move first.

He left the room. How long had he stayed there, five or ten minutes? He checked his watch on the way out. He had been there for two hours.

Illya wondered if Napoleon, wherever he was, felt the passing of time.

On his fifth visit, on Sunday, Illya did not say anything. He had not expected to find his words, but now he was beginning to get angry at himself. What was wrong with him? Why was he so powerless? He left after only half an hour of glaring at a spot above Napoleon’s head, his eyes not meeting the unconscious man’s face on purpose. Just as he was about to leave, a nurse he had never seen before went in, wheeling a cart full of medical tools. She said hello, he mumbled an answer and made for the door. Just before he left, the nurse put her hand on his arm. He looked down at her, and she said, a sweet, caring smile on her lips:

“My colleagues told me that there would be somebody here today. It is nice of you to come. He may not be responsive, but often patients’ states improve when their loved ones come to visit. They can feel us, even if they cannot let us know it.”

She then got to work, checking Napoleon’s IV bags. Illya, now in the corridor, cast a last glance at the room, but did not leave. She must have thought that he had left, because she began to talk softly to Napoleon. Illya silently came back to the door to listen. Via the partially open door, Illya watched her. He could not move, transfixed.

“Your friend seem nice, does he not Mr Solo? I wish I would have a friend who would visit me every day like that.” She took Napoleon’s pulse. “Oh, by the way, Doctor Miller will come to see you tomorrow at two PM. He wants to run new tests… Do you remember him Mr Solo?” The nurse then checked the electrodes on Napoleon’s body. Illya was looking at her nimble hands, but all he could see were the fading bruises. “All done mister. I will tell the caregiver to give you a bath today, all right? You will be all beautiful for tomorrow. I will not be here to see you though, I am on holidays for a month. Also…” She got closer to Napoleon’s face, and whispered something in his ear. Illya did not hear what it was, and as he saw the nurse preparing to leave the room, he retreated to the stairs with long and silent steps.

The next day, he would come back, just before two PM. He was curious to see the results of the tests. In the meantime, he would not try to be too hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! I apologise again for the lateness, I have been exhausted these last days, love you all!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for your support, and here is the new chapter! I am sorry my schedule is a bit messy, these days are hard days.

The next day, Illya was right on time. He felt more relaxed than ever before, waiting for the doctor’s arrival. He did not look at Napoleon, his eyes following the clouds out of the window.

In fact, the doctor arrived five minutes late. He seemed surprised to see Illya here, but greeted him warmly nonetheless. Yet, Illya was even more surprised that the doctor already knew him.

“I was the one who worked on your own brain injury during your stay here Mr Kuryakin. I technically know what the two of you did, but you could have been more careful.” He smiled at Illya. Doctors’ sense of humour. Illya did not glare. If he wanted information, he had to play nice.

In the end, playing nice did not prove too difficult as the doctor ushered Illya out of the room to run the tests. Illya was then left to pace in the corridor, not impatient but slightly worried.

He had checked his watch ten times when the door opened again. The doctor gestured him to come in.

“I think you will be interested in hearing the results Mr Kuryakin.”

“I am.”

“Mr Solo’s state is improving, ever so slightly. The staff told me that you visited him this week, maybe it helped him to be in contact with a friendly presence. Believe me or not, but until today, he had been entirely unresponsive. I am not one to lose hope easily, but I was beginning to think him as a lost cause.”

Illya felt bubbles spark somewhere inside his chest, or was it his mind? Could he really believe the doctor? He cast a glance at Napoleon, who seemed no different than before. The doctor must have caught him, since he added:

“You cannot yet see the changes. It is only that he responded to some tactile and ocular stimuli. He transitioned from deep coma to vegetative state. It is the first step in recovery.” The doctor looked at Illya more intensely, as if searching for something hidden in his eyes. Something like what vegetative state meant. Illya did not exactly know, but the word sounded right to his ears. “Those were the good news if I can call them so.”

“The good news. So there are bad news.”

The doctor smiled, most likely taking Illya’s less than eloquent answer for worry. Illya did not know if it was worry.

“Yes. Even if his body is healing, I have no way of asserting if there will be damage once he wakes up, if he wakes up. He could very well be amnesic, it is not unheard of after such an accident. There are also risks of catatonia, aphasia, loss of certain… capacities. It is a possibility we have to prepare ourselves for.”

Illya nodded, without really thinking. He who had felt relieved upon learning that Napoleon was alive… why could it not be simple?

In his mind, once he had freed Napoleon, everything would have fallen into its rightful place. This was a chess game Illya could not win. Too late, he realised he had never been moving the pieces.

Later, Illya would not be able to recall the last words he had exchanged with the doctor. He remembered shaking his hand -a surprisingly strong hand for a man this size. He remembered being alone in the room again, his eyes not leaving the spot where the doctor had stood. He remembered leaving the medical facility some time later, his thoughts in a turmoil.

In the darkness of his bedroom, in the space between awake and asleep, Illya wondered why he did not feel the strange call anymore. Did it mean that he did not want to see Napoleon anymore?

Closing his eyes, he swore to come back the next day.

He would come back, but was if Napoleon was awake? What if he had changed?

Later that night, waking up for the fifth time, Illya found what had severed the string of the call. Napoleon had opened his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, next chapter on wednesday nigh!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive my lateness, same problem as always, this freaking THESIS. Enjoy!

As promised, Illya came back to visit Napoleon the next day.

At first, vegetative state had sounded like good news, but when Illya stood a few feet away from Napoleon, it was different.

His eyes were closed, but the nurse reassured Illya –How had she known he needed to be reassured – that it was normal for the vegetative state. The patients often lived through a normal sleeping, waking cycle. All right then. Illya had not come at the right moment. He decided to stay, to wait until Napoleon woke up again.

Waiting was long and boring. After the first twenty minutes, Illya thought about going back home, taking a book to read and coming back.

Then he thought about not coming back.

Finally, he sat down on the chair near the bed and looked through the window.

Seconds ticked by, and even if Illya’s logical side knew what he had seen the night before, he began to wonder if he had not imagined the whole scene. In the midst of his wondering, Illya mumbled, unconsciously, voice low, “You could have been awake. I came to see you and you do not even care…”

Illya jumped up, startled by the voice. Napoleon had not moved, nor opened his eyes. He realised the voice had been his own. He was even more surprised to have addressed Napoleon directly… now that the words were said, now that they had disappeared… they felt natural. Maybe he could try again.

“You do not hear me.”

Illya had not expected an answer. After some more staring, this time at Napoleon’s eyelids, he left.

Illya regretted to have left the next day, because he had an appointment with an U.N.C.L.E. physicist to run a few ability tests, and he would not have time to see Napoleon that day. The tests went well, shooting, running, jumping… The doctor cleared him with a handshake, and Mr Waverly would have the report on his desk that very evening.

The next day, when he stepped in Napoleon’s room, Illya thought for a second that he would tell Napoleon about the tests. There would be a peculiar familiarity settling between them. Yet, Illya said nothing, because Napoleon had his eyes open. A dull blue, unfocused, but open. Illya did not dare to think lifeless. They were everything but lifeless. They were the very proof that Napoleon was indeed alive, and holding on to this world.

Napoleon was brave. Maybe this was why Illya had been drawn to him. A smile graced Illya’s lips. Not a laugh-smile, but something rare. A fleeting smile, that Illya quickly chased. A smile that disappeared once Illya made eye-contact with Napoleon.

“I was not mocking you. Do not worry.” Illya did not feel surprise at once for these words. He had felt they were needed, and he wanted to laugh at his own foolishness when he remembered that Napoleon. Could. Not. See. Him. That he most probably did not hear him. Yet now that he talked, Illya saw no reason not to continue:

“Yesterday, I read a medical magazine. I had tests to do so I was here, and they have plenty of magazines. I read on coma. On your… vegetative state. They say the longer you are like that, the less likely you are to ever wake up. I wonder how long it will take for the nurses and doctor to lose interest in you–”

Illya did not finish his sentence. He had heard the meanness there, and even if shocked was not the right word to describe what Illya was feeling, it was close. He supposed he had not meant it like that… but he was not sure of what he had wanted to say. If it had been worry speaking via his mouth, Illya should have kept it shut. If the nurse was right, if Napoleon was indeed hearing everything Illya said, the last thing he needed now was fatalism.

Illya did not know what Napoleon might want to hear. He had nothing to say…

_ Gaby is coming back from her mission tonight. _

_ I will be picking her up at around seven. _

_ She wants me to have dinner ready. _

_ I will take her to a restaurant. She loves going to the restaurant. _

_ You like that too, don’t you? I can picture you so easily, in the crowd, well dressed, smiling… You should take Gaby to the restaurant. I do not like restaurants. _

He would never say that to Napoleon. That would be nonsensical, and besides he never talked about his life like that. It was not how he worked, period.

Illya left the room. As he had not said to Napoleon, he had things to prepare for Gaby’s arrival. After their dinner, she would most likely want to have a drink at their shared flat before going to bed, so he needed to tidy up some mess strewn around the living room. Illya did not say goodbye to Napoleon. Not that it mattered, he had not said hello either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, sorry it is so small. 'Til Sunday, love you!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter, thank you for all your love and support, and sorry for being late

When he picked up Gaby at their rendezvous point, a few streets away from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, at quarter past seven o’clock, Illya was relieved to find her in perfect health. If one asked him, he preferred to be the one injured instead of his partner. The main problem was that Gaby had the exact same reasoning, which often lead to shenanigans.

Gaby climbed in the car, and asked:

“Where to,  _ chauffeur _ ?”

Illya smiled, not answering. He drove, keeping his destination secret. Finally, he parked the car in front of a restaurant that was not exactly posh but still stylish. It served international food and had light background jazz music. It was a nice place, rarely over-crowded yet always buzzing with people. As she climbed out of the car, Gaby put on her sunglasses in one swift move. It was all for style: the sun was already setting behind the tall buildings surrounding them.

Once they were seated inside the Restaurant, Illya let Gaby choose the food for him. He trusted her to find something to her taste. She was not a picky eater, but Illya really wanted her to have a good time, and he did not have the patience to detail the menu. Besides, he would eat almost anything that was put on a plate in front of him. Gaby told him it was international cuisine, modern. He did not really care. They were served the wine, a French chateau that was relatively nice.

Waiting for the main course to be served, they sipped their wine, not talking much and tasting the appetizers. Gaby had brushed off the subject of her mission, “some surveillance work, nothing over the top”, yet Illya saw in her eyes –now that she had taken off her sunglasses– that she was biding her time, waiting for the right moment to spill it all. Illya hoped that it was not something too serious, but the atmosphere in the restaurant was light and pleasant. This evening did not smell like one that would turn bad.

After a reasonable amount of time, the waiter brought them the main course. Gaby had chosen for herself milk fed lamb cutlets served with a side dish of wild asparagus, and the smell was exquisite. For Illya, she had chosen sirloin of beef with boletus and a red wine rich sauce. The meat was perfectly cooked, tender, and Illya began to eat, forgetting for a second Gaby’s wolfish eyes.

Illya bit in a juicy piece of meat, and Gaby smiled.

“So, has Mr Solo woken up yet?”

Illya forgot that the fork was still in his mouth, eyes unfocused, stunned.

Gaby laughed, crystal-clear and just mocking enough. “Oh my Illya! You should see yourself!”

Illya sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching down. He was used to Gaby’s sense of humour, but he had been so busy not thinking about  _ him _ … He glared at Gaby for good measure. She chuckled, not impressed at all.

“Well, are you going to answer me?”

Illya drank a little bit of wine. “I do not know if he has woken up.” He could not yet convey into words the uneasiness, the feelings… how could he explain what it felt like, to spend hours so close to someone who did not seem to be in the same world than him?

“You have not been to see him?!”

Gaby sounded genuinely shocked. She had not expected this answer, and for a second all trace of humour had left her pretty face. Maybe, if he had looked deep enough in her eyes, Illya could have seen a hint of sadness and a pinch of disappointment.

“I have,” he quickly said. No misunderstandings, please. “I just do not know if he has woken up. He has opened his eyes. That is all. He does not… look like he has woken up.”

Gaby reached across the table to take Illya’s left hand in her own.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to… unsettle you. I thought you would have been happy to see him again.”

She was sincere, it was in her tone, in her eyes. Illya was not angry at her. She had had no way of knowing that he had been a complete fool for a week, incapable of understanding the forces that moved him from inside.

“I suppose I thought so too,” said Illya. He was not so hungry anymore.

Gaby smiled sweetly. She squeezed Illya’s hand before taking her fork again. There was a gleam in her eyes that Illya did not like. Something that, under a certain light, would look like a terrible idea, a good idea.

The rest of the dinner was uneventful. Gaby did her best to keep Illya entertained, showing yet again her impressive memory by untangling the gossip of all of U.N.C.L.E. New York. Illya did not really pay attention, but he answered non-committedly at the right time to seem interested and flatter her effort.

When they left the restaurant, Illya drove back to their flat. Once inside and out of their coats, he offered Gaby a glass. Much to his surprise, she refused, stating that she had drunk more than enough at the restaurant and had to get up early the next day. It was obvious she felt guilty for the way their conversation had ended.

Illya felt guilty too, and they went to their respective bedrooms. Illya did not sleep well that night, and when he woke up the next morning, Gaby had already left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, stay tuned for the next one on Wednesday night, I love you!


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe you all an apology. I was at an all time low since the last time I posted. Larp bleed, my thesis, my birthday and the existential crisis that followed. I could not bring myself to be active on any social media except sometimes instagram. Even loging in Ao3 to update this fic was too much. But I am back again, some hard decisions later. 
> 
> I sincerely hope you will enjoy this chapter, and the next one will be on wednesday :)

At about five in the afternoon, Illya left his flat, and went to visit Napoleon.

As soon as he went in the small room, Illya noticed something had changed. He could decipher what it is, something in the thickness of the air or the whiteness of the wall. All the hair on his body stood on edge. Illya looked at Napoleon, at last. His eyes were open, unfocused, and his hands were on the sheets, crossed over his chest. Illya had never seen them placed that way. He decided it was of no importance and left.

Two days later, Illya was back on duty. It felt good, it felt more than good. He knew the corridors by heart, he did not say hello to the girl at the reception, yet she always greeted him warmly. Mr Waverly was the same as ever, cordial yet unmistakably the Boss. The boss Illya trusted, the man for whom he worked.

He had no mission for the moment, nothing special to do, and so Illya expected Mr Waverly to summon him to his office to talk about Napoleon. Mr Waverly had left clues, subtext that he could not yet talk to Illya, but that had been two weeks ago! Surely now he could? Illya was not impatient, but he had not forgotten the resentment he felt against Mr Waverly. He had been busy being confused, visiting Napoleon and healing to think about it. Now that he was back at work, idle, he had time and the proper environment to brood.

Those had been Gaby’s words. She produced a different sentence every evening.

“You are brooding, smile!”

“Why so angry today?”

“You should talk to him, you know, it is not healthy!”

Illya never answered. He wanted to ask her why she was always busy, running through the Headquarters or being somewhere outside doing God knows what that had the utmost importance. One evening his nerves more on edge than the previous days, he had asked her. Asked her why. She had shrugged, half-annoyed, “I am doing your job actually,” before picking up a magazine and ignoring him for the evening.

In fact, Illya had been glad she had ignored him. That last comment had piqued him. He only wanted to do his job! It was not his fault there was nothing to do, nothing but senseless boring paperwork… in a week, he had not even had time to visit Napoleon!

Well, he would have had nothing to say,  _ as usual _ , and if the room was strange again, he was not sure to stay, but he felt bad.

The next day, he phoned Mr Waverly to ask him permission to come two hours late at work, so he had time to see Napoleon. Mr Waverly agreed with a warm “of course,” which kind of surprised Illya. Maybe Mr Waverly only wanted to make amends. That would be a nice but unrealistic perspective.

Still, much to Illya’s dismay, Napoleon’s room was not back to normal. It hit him when he opened the door, like something that wanted to get out and leave an enclosed space. It could have been a smell. A smell that had nothing to do here but that, for an obvious reason or another, Illya could not recognise but all too well. And so the label eluded him.

 

“You have not visited Mr Solo much these last few days.” Gaby asserted that evening. Illya was still trying to figure out what the unsettling smell was, but so far he had been unsuccessful.

“I went there this very afternoon. Why do you care?”

Gaby left the chair she was sitting in and sat down on the sofa, right next to Illya.

“Why do I care? Illya, please… I care because you took risks for him. You could have been fired from U.N.C.L.E., you could have been killed… I care because he must mean a lot to you, even if I do not yet understand why. I would like to know why.”

Gaby took Illya’s hands in her owns, and locked eyes with him. He was speechless, unable to escape her warm, gentle eyes. They stayed silent like this for a long time. Illya wanted to answer. If he talked, maybe he would learn the answer. Why did he care for Napoleon? Did he care?

Gaby was patient. She was so much more patient than him, willing to untangle the knots he would have cut through. Illya knew she would wait, his hands in hers, she would wait until the clock ticked midnight, one AM. She would wait for him to talk, because, thought Illya, maybe she already had the answer and wanted him to find it.

Illya tried to go back in time, in his mind, to find the answer.

He had begun to care when he had seen Napoleon, so professional at the party, accept and do so much. He had begun to care then, a seed planted deep in his body that started to grow days after. He had started to care without knowing it, and only when the vines of caring had invaded his brain, getting through his walls’ crevices and cracks, only then he had realised.

It had been too late then.

Napoleon had fallen prey to the game of chess they all unconsciously play, and all Illya was left with were scattered bits and pieces, not knowing how to place them on the board, not knowing how to play the game.

Illya had tried his best, but he had not understood, not yet, what caring meant and what would be the consequences. He had gotten his hands full of trouble, and he would swear before God that he had done his best.

In the end he was confused. He was lost and confused, and the only person who might explain, the one that was the origin and thus who had to hold the answers… this person could not see him, hear him, or care for him.

Illya blinked, and focused on Gaby’s brown, patient eyes. She had not moved, waiting until he was ready.

Was he ready? He had begun to unravel the vines, but was he ready to follow them, to talk?

Gaby’s hands on him were warm, offering comfort without pressure.

Illya closed his eyes. He retreated back into his mind to see the vines, the reasons. Everything was there, in plain sight, waiting to make sense.

When did the seed spring?

Illya remembered being frustrated when he had been denied Napoleon’s identity. He had not understood, he had not liked that. He had liked even less to see Napoleon being dismissed like some used object.

He had not understood until Paris, when overconfident enemies had talked. The mess had made sense then, maybe in a biased, distorted way, but Illya had clung to it.

It had made sense, and along with sense came fury. Napoleon had been selfless to a fault, why, why?

Illya had not understood Napoleon’s reasons to choose U.N.C.L.E., to choose Illya over himself. Napoleon was a ragdoll thrown from side to side, from the CIA to the streets and where did Mr Waverly stand?

The vines’ flowers were those of gratefulness. Illya had owed Napoleon his life and possibly more, but did he care because of that? Would he stop caring the day Napoleon would regain full consciousness. A life for a life.

Illya did not like this idea. Not anymore. It would have been the obvious choice a few weeks ago,  _ good bye, I will not see you later, we are even. _

_ And there was I, thinking you hated me since the second we met. _

“He thought I hated him.” Illya’s voice was low, barely more than a whisper. Gaby let go of his hands, slowly, and kissed him on the cheek. The kiss meant ‘take your time’. It meant ‘I’m proud of you’. She got up, ready to go to her room, and said, her voice low too:

“I think I understand. You will too, do not worry. For the time being, I will go on doing your job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and don't forget that I love you my dear readers :)


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your support and your nice comments, I love you so much <3   
> On to the chapter ~

Illya was a fool.

He had woken up in a good mood, went to work in a good mood and then Mr Waverly had given him work at ten o’clock. It was now three in the afternoon and he was bored to hell. He yawned, looked at his watch and pondered whether or not it was a good idea to go get another cup of coffee. He would lose five to ten minutes in the corridors and elevators, maybe he would run into Gaby and chat with her… he needed any distraction he could find.

He was a damn fool. He did not yet know it, or maybe he had a vague idea, but nothing too bothersome at the moment. Nothing that could prevent him from working. He was sitting in his office, the previous cup of coffee forgotten by his side. In front of his eyes, countless files were strewn on his desk. He had to go through them before four PM, but it was boring. So boring. Many times, Illya stupidly wondered why it had to be his job to read the files and takes notes, but Mr Waverly had reminded that he was the one with KGB experience in U.N.C.L.E. All right. He knew some of the names mentioned and could read Russian, but those files –that were transcripts of encrypted conversations on some scientific subject Illya did not understand.

When he did not understand something, it bored him, and then, it angered him in the end. Boredom would not have been such a problem if Illya’s thoughts did not keep getting back to Napoleon. He was trying to untangle his feelings for the man, if he could call them feelings. They were dyed in different shades of guilt and confusion, but the confrontation with Gaby had helped him. Telling her a single sentence had helped him a lot.

When he had learned that Napoleon had been taken prisoner by Miss Belmont. When he had seen Napoleon in the cell. And when in the span of an hour, he had learned his past, imagined his future and understood so much… Illya had felt too much. He had looked back at his attitude, and felt bad. As bad as if he had been the one who had destroyed Napoleon’s career, the one using him, his clients –Illya imagined them faceless, filthily rich and uncaring–, as bad as Mr Waverly who knew everything and yet did nothing. In that moment, Illya had regretted having been so presumptuous when they had met. He had regretted not looking past the first impression. He felt as if events he could not control were his fault and his only.

Illya wanted to see Napoleon right now. He had found words to say to him, something as simple as sorry, as thank you. Maybe he would ask Mr Waverly if he could leave early. He hoped that Mr Waverly would accept… Illya decided finally that he would not go procrastinate at the coffee machine. He finished reading the files and taking notes in less time than he thought it would have taken him, and gave his report to Mr Waverly. Mr Waverly was satisfied by Illya’s results, he congratulated him and accepted his request without asking questions.

Illya did not run through the corridors –he had a reputation to uphold– though he walked faster than he usually did. He jumped in a taxi that luckily drove well, and climbed the medical facility’s stairs two steps at a time.

The corridor was empty, and Illya was conscious of the sounds of his steps, echoing and bouncing off the sterile wall. He came to a stop halfway to Napoleon’s room. The corridor was empty but there was a voice. A voice coming from Napoleon’s room, a voice Illya was afraid to know. The sound was muffled, distorted by the door. Illya walked closer, silent and wary. He leaned against the door, and it should have opened to punish him for eavesdropping.

“– you must think I am a chatterbox, well I am not, thank you very much. But I am taking my job to heart you know. Since he will not tell you anything, I have to do it myself. It is for your own good, and for his. I already told you about yesterday evening…”

Illya hiccupped. He should have known the smell. There was no place for doubt now. That voice… He opened the door, too hard, it crashed against the wall. Gaby sprang up like a cat, surprised, ready for anything, ready to fight, ready to protect. The world stood on edge and time came to a stop, as Napoleon’s eyes followed the movement of the door, swiped over Illya up, down, meeting his eyes, meeting his eyes and staying there, conscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter :) I hope the fic is not getting too frustrating, i know it's kinda slow :p   
> Next chapter will be on Sunday, and thank you again for reading and keeping up with this fic


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the new chapter, and on time!   
> Enjoy my dear readers~

Illya was prisoner. Caught like a deer in the headlights, he could not move for dear life. He was held by Napoleon’s eyes, held tight. His muscles had turned to stone and his heart hammered so loud it echoed through the corridor. It hammered so loud that Illya could not talk. His voice would not have raised over this noise. Napoleon’s eyes held him silent.

Angry. Illya, immobile, silent, Illya was angry. He felt betrayed, furious, he wanted to ask why, what you think you had a right to… why why! He wanted to scream, to smash the furniture against the wall, to tear the whole room apart. Illya was angry like he had seldom been before. He did not understand how Gaby, the Gaby he trusted above all other human beings, could betray his trust… but even angry, Illya did not say anything. He was caught in Napoleon’s eyes, and as long as they did not move, he was not able to move either.

In fact, it was like a spell. The three of them were locked in time, they needed an exterior stone to break their glass wall. Gaby would not act first. Breathless, eyes more alert than ever. She would not risk Illya’s wrath, there may be consequences she had not thought about. Napoleon would… no, he would not, not yet. Illya could do nothing. He was torn between roaring fury and disbelieving immobility.

Then, slowly, oh so very slowly, the fabric of the spell cracked. Napoleon’s pupils stopped looking at Illya, and turned to Gaby. Such a simple move, and only the eyes were moving, not the body, nor the hands nor the mouth. Devoid of will, Illya’s eyes followed Napoleon’s and fell on Gaby. Time began to pass again, and Gaby took a step backwards, closer to the wall, her hand lingering beside the bed. She had not yet schooled her features, eyes wide with surprise and mouth ajar. There was some fear on her face too, fear that turned into realisation and understanding.

Illya took a step forward.

In the corridor, there was a sign somewhere,  _ respect the patients, please be quiet. _

_ Please be quiet. _

Illya took a step forward again. Gaby breathed in, chest out and shoulders straight. She blinked, her eyes colder now. Illya saw her stance change. She shifted her weight on her legs, and kept her eyes straight on him. She was ready to defend… not herself. Her hand was outstretched towards the bed, hovering over the sheet, hovering over Napoleon’s own hand.

Illya’s voice came out as a hiss between clenched teeth. “What are you doing here?”

“I would tell you I can explain, but I know you–”

“What were you doing here talking to him?”

“There, as I said.” Her other hand went to her hip, more provocative. Gaby knew Illya and Illya knew Gaby. They were not yet shouting, turning around each other, knowing each other by heart. Illya, poor Illya, hurt Illya, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Gaby, blameless, yet knowing she had to face the upcoming storm. Gaby, who should have known.

“Gaby.” Illya’s voice rose, just a little bit, just above a normal conversation.

“Yes Illya?”

Gaby was not afraid. The surprise gone, she knew Illya would not harm her. He knew it too, and since the beginning he had kept his arms to his side. Illya did not know what to say now. His thoughts were an angry sea storm, green like jealousy, furious and foaming.

He growled, “We should talk outside.”

Gaby nodded. It would spare Napoleon a violence he did not need at the moment. Who knew what he could hear, what he would understand. Gaby was the first to get out. Illya followed her, casting a last glance in Napoleon’s direction. He would have liked to see Napoleon’s eyes following him, but they were unfocused again, having lost that spark of consciousness that had so mesmerized Illya.

Once in the corridor it became clear to both Illya and Gaby that they could not talk there too. There was the risk of a nurse or a doctor hearing them, and it was the last thing they wanted. Illya walked in the direction of the stairs, but Gaby grabbed his hand and called the elevator. It would be faster.

Yet, as Illya feared, he saw, in his mind, reflected on the mirrors of the elevator, the ghost of Napoleon. Leaning against the wall, his hairline bleeding.  _ I have seen worse, I told you.  _ Illya glared at the ghost, willing it to leave.  _ I am tired, that is all. _

They were soon out of the elevator, and in a few quick strides they had left the medical facility under the weary gaze of the receptionist. Once outside, they stopped after a few steps. They did not want to draw attention to them, but neither did they want to wait.

“What were you doing there?”

Gaby looked slightly bored, almost resigned, but Illya could not decipher why. It was as if she had reached the point where she saw Illya as an overgrown child, and felt as if she had to take the matters into her own hands. It was infuriating.

There, then, at that precise moment, it was inconceivable for Illya. Yet she did not talk. She did not talk, because she knew she was right, she knew Illya knew it yet would never accept.

Illya wanted Gaby to answer. It would give him the right to be even angrier, but as it was, he had better do the talking. Let his anger out.

“How long have you been talking to him?”

“Since the day after I got back from my mission. After we had dinner.” Illya should have known. The change, the smell, someone trespassing on his territory. “Since I realised you were not doing anything.”

Illya wanted to scream. To shout so loud how difficult it was to do anything. He was struggling, every day, struggling with how he felt towards Napoleon. Coming to terms with his feelings, or failing to do so, had taken its toll on Illya’s morale. These last weeks, he had been more afraid than he would ever admit. He had been afraid of Napoleon’s death, afraid of the consequences of his actions, and now, he was afraid of Napoleon. Afraid of what Napoleon would say, would think if he woke up. Worse, Illya was afraid of Napoleon not waking up. Fear was an unusual foe for Illya. He had almost never dealt with it, and he was paralyzed. Fear and guilt were preventing him for talking, for knowing what he felt or wanted to do. Illya wanted to tell Gaby all that. He was trying his best though, and if it was not enough for Gaby, or for whoever had set the rules, then it was not his fault.

He was not to blame!

Illya’s anger was draining out of his body. Subdued by Gaby’s glare, it was cooling, settling down until Illya’s breathing calmed. Until all that was left of it was a cold pain in his chest, a cold and wet feeling creeping up his muscles, into his toes, into his fingertips and nose. Behind his eyes, in the folds of his heart.

It was the pain of realisation, the pain of betrayal. Illya tried to hide how much it hurt behind his angry voice:

“Why… did you think you had a right to do this?”

Gaby sighed. “Illya… somebody had to do something. I know you wanted to help him, and you already did, but the last thing he needs is you sulking around his room!”

“How could you– You spied on me!”

“Of course not! I read between the lines. I am your flatmate, remember? I know how to see through you.”

Illya was, if possible, even more upset now. He was not an open book for her to read, and even if some tiny part of his mind tried to tell him that she had done what she thought was best, Illya did not hear it. He wanted to ask Gaby what exactly she had told Napoleon, what details of his private life, of his insecurities, she had thought she could tell him. Illya looked at Gaby again. He saw in her eyes the gleam of victory. He had not shouted, he was now thinking about his actions, his potential mistakes. She would, like most of the times, succeed in making him see the light of reason. Before he could utter a word, Gaby twisted the knife one last time into the wound:

“Besides, he is waking up now. His health has been improving every day and he will soon be back to a normal level of consciousness. He will need someone at his side, and excuse me if I am not certain anymore that you are the best candidate.”

She left with these words. She left Illya alone with his shock. He did not exactly know what was worse. She did not trust him. She was right. He was not at all helping Napoleon. Napoleon was waking up. Illya needed to think. To reorder his thoughts, once and for all. He looked at the medical facility, and decided that, it was both his and Napoleon’s best interests if he did no come back yet.

Illya did not fall asleep that night. He had spent the whole evening away from Gaby, still angry. He was painfully aware that they were a few feet away, the only barrier between them two doors and a corridor. They had not eaten together, and Illya had taken his paperwork with him in his room, not wanting to run into Gaby while working.

He had not worked. He was unable to concentrate, and more than once he nearly threw the files and papers on the floor.

It was past midnight now, and Illya was sitting on his bed, head cradled in his hands. Thinking was painful, thinking about the past day was even worse. Whenever he closed his eyes, Illya saw Napoleon’s eyes looking back at him. These blue eyes, more awake than before… Could it be that Gaby was right? If he was waking up… had Napoleon recognised him?

Illya hoped he had. It lit something inside him, the idea that Napoleon was conscious enough to know him, to see him. Yet Illya hoped he had not. Gaby’s words were still echoing inside him. If Napoleon had seen him, recognised him, what had he seen? A giant, angry statue? Had he heard Illya’s venomous words? Had he understood them? Illya hoped not. He hoped to God that Napoleon would not remember this of him… It was better indeed, if Illya did not come back.

That thought hurt too. Illya supposed that once healed, Napoleon would disappear again like he had the first time. Illya wanted to have a chance to talk to him before he left again. Before he left for good… was whispering a sick voice in his head. It had been the main reason why he had come to Napoleon’s room in the first place. To talk, to relieve himself of his guilt, ask for forgiveness, and perhaps say…  _ I am sorry, I did not think at first, but I never hated you. I never wanted all of this to happen to you. _

How could he say that now? In a few days, in a week or two, Napoleon would be awake and out of bed, and the distance between them would only grow. It would grow until Napoleon left, the gap between them too big for Illya to jump.

Illya did not sleep that night, the gap too clear in his mind’s eye.

At five o’clock, he took a shower, and washed his sleepless night away. He made himself a cup of coffee, made some for Gaby too out of habit, even if it was too early for her to be up. The sun had not risen. It would be cold by the time she woke up, and Illya would have left. Not that it mattered.

During the day, Illya was not really into his work. He was preparing for a simple routine mission in Canada that involved the security of a new facility. Mr Waverly was using Illya for too easy missions, some that could have been carried by junior agents, but Illya could not bring himself to be resentful. He was lucky enough that Mr Waverly had forgiven him.

The hours ticked by slowly as Illya went deeper and deeper into his thoughts. He skipped lunch without realising it. When his thoughts became just a little bit too much, Illya gave in and called a secretary, asking her to bring him the latest report on Napoleon’s health. It was an unusual request, but knowing U.N.C.L.E., the rumours had travelled fast. Everyone knew that Illya had brought a mysterious injured person from his last trip to Paris, and Illya had heard the most ridiculous versions of the event since he had been back on duty. On the other side of the phone, the secretary chuckled and answered that the report would be on Illya’s desk as soon as possible.

Illya reclined back in his chair. He was used to sleepless nights on the job, but he did not like the burning sensation behind his eyes nor the heavy feeling in his limbs and lids. He closed his eyes. He had enough time to prepare for the mission, which would take place in two weeks, and could afford a nap. He fell asleep easily enough, and the nap was too short, or he was too tired to dream. When he awoke to a knock on his door, he felt as if he had barely slept. The person on the other side was patient, and Illya was glad to see the secretary he had called a few minutes – a quick look at his watch, two hours– ago. She handed him the report with a professional smile and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Illya thanked her and locked the door again. He did not want to be disturbed while reading the report.

Back in his chair, Illya flipped through the first pages, uninterested. He had already read those, when Gaby had given him Napoleon’s file. He had still been in the medical facility himself, and she had been so ready to help, so benevolent…  _ ‘I will try to fish for some information on your Mr Solo.’  _ When she had read Napoleon’s file, did it make her want to… ‘ _ I look forward to meet him. A man you would risk your career for must be quite worthy of interest.’ _ Illya dropped the file. He felt stupid. Why did it matter if Gaby wanted to know Napoleon? Why his silly brain had to come up with upsetting scenarios all the time? She did not know anything about Napoleon, maybe even less than Illya. She would not harm him, no, of course not, it did not even frighten Illya. She would not steal Napoleon away from Illya… why did he dread this possibility? Napoleon had been his problem, his mistake, but that did not entitle Illya to anything. He needed to let go, more so as he was still not able to understand why the idea of losing Napoleon was so upsetting. It had to be more than respect and misplaced guilt.

Illya picked up the medical file again. He found the pages corresponding to the last few days, and even if the percentages of oxygen in the blood did not interest him, and neither did the levels of blood sugar, he kept on reading. He read about cognitive mediated behaviour, about reaching for objects, pursuit eye movement, smiling, and there was this conclusion, this tiny thing he must have missed because he had seen Napoleon several times since then… these three words,  _ minimally conscious state _ . Yet another step towards full healing. ‘ _ They can feel us, even if they cannot let us know it.’ _ Minimally conscious state, which meant that Napoleon had not only been able to see him for the past four days, but he had also been able, for sure, to hear, to understand… Illya did not want to think able to feel, but he could not prevent himself to.

Four days.

Napoleon had seen him come into his room and leave without reason, Napoleon had most likely not understood, and what if those were the images he now associated with Illya. Angry giant, threat. What if he did not remember anything that had happened prior to his coma, what if he did not remember Illya as anything more than this unwelcome presence?  _ No… _

Gaby had been right all along, right as usual. He was waking up. He was waking up and had been for four days. Four days. Gaby had already been back then. She had seen him… was she the one who reported the so-called cognitive mediated behaviour? The smiling?

Four days. Napoleon had been conscious when Illya had burst into his room, reeking of rage, and he remembered now Gaby’s protective gesture. Napoleon had heard and seen and understood and felt everything.

_ Oh no, what can he think of me now! _

‘ _ I am not certain anymore that you are the best candidate.’ _

‘– _ excuse me–’ _

Illya let his head fall on the cool surface of the desk.  _ ‘Often patients’ states improve when their loved ones come to visit.’  _ He had done everything wrong. He dry heaved, fingers grasping at the borders of his desk. He was not used to feel this much. He was not accustomed to this particular pain, this guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and thank you again for reading and for your love and support <3


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, same Illya! Enjoy <3

Illya stayed doubled over his desk for hours. U.N.C.L.E.’s agents, secretary, scientists and administrative staff were leaving one by one. One by one, the lights were turned out, the doors closed. Illya did not care, could not care, and would not even have heard the fire drill if it had rung.

All he cared about was pain, guilt piercing his chest and betrayal his back. Two daggers in his back. Gaby’s and his own. The latter had dug deeper into the flesh, cut into the protective bone of his ribcage and was now preventing him from breathing correctly. Illya was a fool. He kept repeating it like a sick mantra,  _ I am a fool, such a fool I have been! _

Steps in the corridor. Illya did not lift his head from the desk. He heard the faraway sound of a key being turned and of the door opening. He tried to care. This could mean danger. No, no, only three people had the keys to his office, himself, Gaby and Mr Waverly. Illya did not know which option was the worst. He did not lift his head. The steps were closer to him, definitely a man’s. Mr Waverly. Illya released the breath he had been holding. He did not want to face Mr Waverly, he did not want to answer any questions, he did not want the older man to read his thoughts, but it was maybe better than Gaby’s judging gaze.

“Mr Kuryakin…”

Illya grumbled a non-committal answer. He was not here.

“Mr Kuryakin, it is half past nine. You should be heading home.”

Illya finally looked at his boss, somehow self-conscious about his dishevelled state.

“Is it so late yet?” Illya’s words were mumbled, blurred as if he had been sleeping.

“Yes.” Mr Waverly looked friendly, a sad, warm smile gracing his thin lips. He looked like the old, wise spy that had convinced Illya to work for him years ago. “We are the last to leave today. Come.”

Illya nodded and got up. His legs were shaky, painful to have been sitting for so long. Mr Waverly smiled again. They walked silently through the dark corridors, and only when they were out in the open did Mr Waverly speak:

“Mr Kuryakin, if you do not feel well, please keep me informed. I might have been mistaken to send you back on duty so soon. If you feel too tired, I can schedule you at least one more week of rest. It is unusually calm those last days…”

Illya shook his head. “I am okay Sir. Thank you. Today was a difficult day. You know what I mean.”

Mr Waverly’s eyes twinkled with something Illya was not able to read, something fickle. “I know exactly what you mean.” He shook Illya’s hand. “I think I will walk tonight. The sky is beautiful. Think of my offer, Mr Kuryakin.”

Mr Waverly then left, his steps fast as he disappeared behind a building.  _ Think of my offer. _ No. Illya’s definitive answer was no. Sulking at work was better than sulking at home, where everything would remind him of Gaby, of himself, of Napoleon… of his guilt. No. He would come back to work and try to forget that Gaby was surely leaving one hour early to sit on the side of Napoleon’s bed, her voice lulling him back to life. He would go to work, and not to the medical facility.

Illya went to sleep and woke up with Gaby’s words engraved in his head.  _ ‘He will need someone at his side, and excuse me if I am not certain anymore that you are the best candidate.’ _

For the following days, Illya followed Gaby’s advice. It was less difficult than he had imagined, the guilt gnawing at his soul a helpful minder. He had already done enough. No need to add more. Napoleon was better off without him. He was not welcome there anymore, full stop. He had made enough mistakes, it was better that way. It was better even if it did not feel right.

Besides, there were other ways, easier ways, to keep track of Napoleon’s state. He could ask for reports. He could ask the doctors. He was Illya Kuryakin. They would not refuse him information. He was Mr Waverly’s favourite, he was a holy fool.

From time to time, Mr Waverly’s offer was coming back to Illya’s mind. He would not ask for a few days of rest, but he had not forgotten the look in his boss’s eyes. That knowing look that, in the dark hours of the night, made lllya want to confide in him. Ask him for advice. It was a bad idea. He had been lucky that Mr Waverly had not taken actions against him, but Mr Waverly had made it very clear that Napoleon’s wellbeing was not his problem at all. Maybe he could speak to Gaby then. The pain had subsided now, now that it was directed towards something else than her. It was difficult, every morning, every evening, to live in the same flat as her and yet to ignore her. She had made no move towards him, and he had been too deep in his own problems to be the one to move. At one point, he had even found her silence, her absence comforting. He had been hurt, and did not want to see her then. Illya supposed that he had changed his mind now. Yet, one problem remained. Gaby must have had information about Napoleon. In Illya’s mind, she was with Napoleon every day, talked to him every day. She was here to see him getting better. She was there, in Illya’s mind, when Napoleon spoke again. She was there when he grabbed her hand. She was there for Napoleon and deep within himself, Illya was jealous. He was jealous of a construct of his own mind, but did it matter? If he talked to her, she would only confirm what he had already imagined.

So he did not talk. He waited until his patience ran out, a few days, and then asked for a new report.

Yet, this time, it was not the usual secretary that gave him the report. Illya had not been expecting Mr Waverly at his door, handing him the file. Not really handing the file though, keeping it at a safe distance from Illya’s hand until the latter acknowledged his boss’s presence. Illya was surprised to say the least. He took a step back, apologized under his breath and began to worry. Would Mr Waverly patronise him? Or had he used the report as an excuse to check on Illya? He would find out soon. Mr Waverly walked past him and sat down on the chair that faced Illya’s desk. This chair was usually used by Gaby, when she came there to pester him…

“Have a seat please, Mr Kuryakin.” Mr Waverly put the medical report on top of the paperwork on Illya’s desk. Illya complied and sat down behind his desk. He did not know what to expect from Mr Waverly, but at least his boss seemed to be in a good mood. The lines around his eyes and mouth were soft, which was unusual for a man with a job such as his.

“You do know, of course, that I have been notified since the first time you asked for those, right?” Mr Waverly asked, pointing to the medical report.

“Yes,” Illya answered, “I know.” He had, in truth, not thought about it. He had asked for the files, and it was written in the rules that Mr Waverly would be informed. It had not seemed important for Illya then, and he now hoped that it was not important. Mr Waverly would not go back on his words, Illya trusted him not to. Would he judge him? Order him to go see Napoleon in person? That would be a change, thought Illya. A strange change indeed…

“Mr Kuryakin…” Mr Waverly looked at his hands, lying flat on the desk. He looked like he was searching for his words. “When I gave you your two weeks of rest, I hoped you would take advantage of it not only to heal but also to visit Mr Solo. I know you did, but now that you are back to work, you have not done so anymore.” He was looking Illya in the eye now. “I only gave you easy missions, most of them did not even ask you to leave your office. Why then, stay secluded here and ask for reports of what you can see by yourself? Should you not go there?”

Illya did not answer. Mr Waverly was too insightful for his liking. He had noticed Illya backing away, and Illya had not thought he would care. Now, what could he say? It was impossible to speak about Gaby. He just could not tell Mr Waverly what she had done, because she had been right all along, and he had been the one to get angry, to fight, to leave in the hand. He could say, perhaps, that Gaby had told him not to come back. It would not be true, and Mr Waverly would see right through the lie. Illya was not a very good liar, which, you must admit, is quite peculiar coming from a spy. Well, it was more complicated than it looked. He was very good at lying in the line of duty. When it came to personal matters and smart people that knew him by heart, it was different. Mr Waverly would have no problem deciphering the truth behind Illya’s words. Illya then decided to let it be that way. He decided not to lie, and let Mr Waverly figure out the details by himself.

“I came to the conclusion that it was better for both Mr Solo and myself that I did not visit him.”

Mr Waverly sighed, studying Illya face, analysing the words. He sighed again, but sadder this time. His eyes took a solemn colour, and he said:

“What I mean Mr Kuryakin, and I apologize in advance, is that when you decided to take a tremendous amount of risk to save Mr Solo; when, let us not argue about semantics, you brought him back, you knew there would be consequences. I was hoping that, with Mr Solo’s health improving as it is, you would take responsibility for your actions, or in this case, face them. Face him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it   
> Thank you again for all your love and support, 'til Sunday!


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Illya, Illya, Illya, what will I do with you?   
> ~ Enjoy!

Face him.

Mr Waverly’s words hit Illya like a slap to the face.  _ Face him _ , as if it was that easy. Illya did not understand how Mr Waverly could say that. Why he was saying that. Illya locked eyes with Mr Waverly, trying, for once, to be the one who read in people’s minds. The blue eyes facing him seemed only genuine, perhaps a bit worried and maybe hopeful. Hopeful to convince Illya.

Face him.

“Sir, I do not think it is a good idea.” Illya did not yet want to tell Mr Waverly his reasons. He would not speak about them, not until he knew about Mr Waverly’s intentions. He was concerned about Napoleon. He had never ceased to be. At least, Illya had no doubt that Mr Waverly knew this. He was not reacting like Gaby had… maybe because Illya was no longer angry.

“Will you explain to me why? Your behaviour has changed. I thought it was your health, but I have come to conclusions.”

“I do not know Sir. It involves many difficult things. Besides, I am sure Mr Solo is okay without me.”

Mr Waverly sighed. A long sigh. He combed a hand through his hair, and his eyes were no longer looking at Illya, but were watching the papers on the desk. Mr Waverly was reacting… like he was sorry about something.

“It was a bad idea from the start to partner you with Mr Solo for this mission. I should have known… I am ashamed to say this, but I have not been… well, I know I am to blame for the way I have treated Mr Solo. You, on the other hand, have shown him more regard than anybody else those past years. I tried to help him I really did!” Saying this, Mr Waverly had balled his fist and hit the desk. He looked tired. “But in the end, I was no different from the others.”

Illya was conflicted. Mr Waverly had never confided so much in him, and his words sounded heartfelt, but on the other hand… on the other hand, Illya had no trouble remembering what Mr Waverly had done, how he had reacted in the safe house, when Illya had told him about Napoleon. This Mr Waverly was different, and Illya did not yet know if it was a good sign. He did not want to take any risks, but those words! Could it be true, that Illya had shown Napoleon more regard than anybody else? It was only logical, now that Illya thought about it. After the party –it seemed so long ago– he had noticed Napoleon’s less than obvious distress. This was why he had wanted to help Napoleon. This was why he had done so much.

To what end? What good did it do, to stay here?

Illya had been angry at Mr Waverly for just reasons. He had been grateful, resentful toward Gaby. These last days, he had been angry at himself, he had been a sorry sight. Wallowing in self-misery would not achieve anything. Now, whatever were Mr Waverly’s intentions, some part of Illya now wanted to listen to him. To take his advice to heart and face his responsibilities. Gaby may have been right when she had told him that what he did was not good for Napoleon. Maybe Mr Waverly was wrong to tell him to see Napoleon. Illya felt anger rise within himself anew. He was tired of it all. Had he been wrong, had he been right? Had Napoleon even cared? Illya knew one thing: he had been relieved to see Napoleon alive. All had not been for nothing. Napoleon was recovering, and if Illya wanted, he could visit him. As long as he wanted to, as long as Napoleon wanted him to…

“I will go see him Sir.”

Mr Waverly’s face was lit up by a small, satisfied smile. Illya got up from his chair, grabbing the medical file and left his office. He did not close the door behind him, hurried. His decision was indeed fickle. One wrong word, and he might doubt again, turn back and leave Napoleon alone.

Illya tried his best not to think on the road to the medical facility. He concentrated his mind on relaxing mechanics, he listened to his breathing… he was there in no time. He took the stairs, not needing the elevator’s ghost judgement. When he stepped in the corridor, he thought that the worst thing that could happen would be to meet Gaby again. He pictured the scene in his mind. She would be sitting on Napoleon’s bed, talking, her soft, happy voice falling into his attentive ears. He would be lying down, still recovering, most likely unable to talk. His eyes would talk instead, grateful. Napoleon was, in Illya’s mind, grateful for this stranger’s presence. Gaby would be doing it as a duty, because why else? Why else indeed…

As Illya was walking in the corridor, conscious of his steps’ noise, he noticed that Napoleon’s door was open. That would be Gaby. It had to be. Illya forced himself not to back down. Not now, maybe not ever. Eventually his ears caught a voice in the air, a man’s voice. He breathed out, relieved. A man could not be Gaby.

“-you feel okay?” Silence. “Ring if you have any problem or feel any change.” Silence again. That would be a doctor. “I will see you in two days, if there is no change. Goodbye.” Illya counted two minutes of silence before the doctor got out of the room, not even paying attention to him. The doctor had closed the door behind him, and Illya put his hand on the handle. Slowly, he pushed the door, and thanked his non-existent god that it did not make any noise. Yet, as soon as he got a foot inside the room, he felt and saw Napoleon’s eyes on him. Awake, intelligent. He went in, closed the door.

Talk, you fool! Talk, make amends now!

“It is nice to see you like this.” It could have been worse. Illya’s voice sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He should have said hello. He should have done many things, but Napoleon smiled. He did not talk, he did not move, but his head had turned to the side when Illya had opened the door, and Illya had seen his lips curve into a slow smile. He began to think that it was Napoleon’s way of saying he was happy to see him, and that in itself would have been the perfect balm to Illya’s insecurities. Logically it was the only way Napoleon had to communicate… Illya did not remember well the medical reports. Illya took a step forward. He was not feeling anything special, it was odd. Napoleon was watching him, conscious of who he was. For the first time since he had come back from Paris, things were returning to normal.

Illya then locked eyes with Napoleon. He then did something, a gesture he had never addressed to the other man. He genuinely smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, thank you again for all of your beautiful comments and for your love. 'Til Wednesday!


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I hope the weather is not too terrible where you live, here it is so hot it's becoming difficult to work (at least for a winter ghoul like me!)   
> As always, thank you so much for your love, kudos, comments and support <3  
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Illya did not know what to say to Napoleon now, and he found himself too soon near the bed. It had barely taken him three steps to be a few inches away from the bed. Napoleon’s eyes had followed Illya, and were now resting on him. Looking up as Illya looked down. Suddenly Napoleon’s left hand –the closest to Illya– which had been lying on top of the covers, moved. A weak pushing gesture, lightly rumbling the white sheet. He repeated the gesture a second time, this time with a movement of the head, up. It was as if he wanted to prop himself up against the pillow… Illya was conscious of his height now, towering above the bed. He did not know if it was correct to crouch, to sit down beside the bed. The position would soon become awkward, and he would be a bit too close to Napoleon… Oh, he was ridiculous. This was already awkward. Illya hesitated a few more seconds, crouch, kneel or sit cross-legged?

He finally sat down, legs crossed, in the most comfortable position he could find. It was easier for Napoleon to look at him this way. Now that Illya had come back into the room, spoken and even sat down, the most difficult thing to do still remained. What to say now? What to do? He had to say something before it was too late. He had to–

“…you… back.”

The voice startled Illya. Hoarse, weak, different. He had not expected the sassy tone, nor perfect words, but he had not imagined it to sound so real. These words, were they Napoleon’s first since Paris? Had he talked to Gaby? Illya’s brain was filled with questions, but no. No. Not now.

Napoleon had talked to him. He had looked Illya in the eye, and managed to tell him two simple words. In the same second, all of Illya’s worries disappeared and increased tenfold. Illya did not know what intonation to put behind the words. Surprised, like Napoleon had not expected him to come back. Happy, like he had been looking forward to it. Questioning, maybe. Illya answered naturally, because it was the most obvious thing he wanted to say. The most important. It was what he had wanted to say in Paris, what he had wanted to say since Napoleon had left Mr Waverly’s office –now what seemed a long time ago– after their mission.

“Why would not I?” Then it struck him. He had told Gaby, he had told himself –countless times– but he had never found the moment, the courage to tell Napoleon. “I never hated you… I mean, I know I was not amiable when we first met, but believe me.”

At first, Illya could not believe he had said this out loud. It was like a great weight had lifted itself off his chest, allowing him to breathe more freely. He had not realised until now how much he had needed to say this.

Illya heard a noise. Napoleon’s hand had fallen from the bed, and was now dangling, kind of limp, near Illya’s knee. Illya looked at the pale fingers, he looked closely and noticed they were slightly moving. Moving, all the arm was moving, millimetre by millimetre, and the fingers were moving as if to grab something, a few inches away from Illya’s own hand which rested on his knee. Without thinking, Illya took it. A first sensation hit him. Warmth. The skin was surprisingly warm. Illya felt the warmth spread through his hand, his arm, flowing in his veins from the contact point. There was a problem though. What could Illya do with this hand? He did not know if Napoleon had willingly moved his hand or not. Eventually, he decided to put Napoleon’s hand back on the bed, alongside his body, letting it go with a soothing gesture.

Illya thought he heard Napoleon sigh. A fleeting sound, something his own mind could have easily made up.

A few minutes passed. Napoleon had his eyes closed now, but Illya was not sure he was asleep. Illya was not sure what to do. Was he supposed to go on talking? He could leave also, and come back the next day. He would have more things to tell Napoleon by then. Illya got up from his sitting position. He had forgotten the medical file on the floor, and opened the door as silently as possible, not to wake Napoleon. He thought he heard a faint noise again, and turned back. Napoleon had still his eyes closed, his breathing even, but his hand had fallen from the bed again. Illya hesitated, then walked back to the bed and put Napoleon’s hand back on the covers. He left the room then, closing the door, and only when he was in the stairs did he realise that the machines’ beeping, the tubes and IVs… none of them had bothered him. He had not paid attention to anything else than Napoleon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the chapter, and OMG did Illya actually speak to Napoleon? That cannot be true! :p


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I apologise for the lateness, but life happens, and Camp NaNo keeps me busy!

Illya would indeed have more things to say to Napoleon the next time he would come back to see him. He had decided to make amends with Gaby as soon as possible. He would kindly ask for explanations, and say the simplest and most heartfelt sorry possible. He thought now, and hoped, that she had only wanted to help both him and Napoleon all along.

When the evening finally came, Illya found himself looking forward to seeing Gaby. He would lie if he said he had not missed her, and he wanted to have this confrontation with her. He hoped that it would not really be a confrontation though. He loved her too much for that, and giving her the cold shoulder – it had been mutual, but oh well– those last days had been a good reminder.

Waiting for Gaby to arrive, Illya checked the fridge. There was enough food to fix up a quick dinner once they had come to terms with their issues. He did not want to cook now… not when there was still the possibility that their conversation might not end well. There was an open bottle of vodka in the fridge too, and Illya hesitated to drink a glass. It would be nice, how long had it been since he had last drunk? It would be nice, but he wanted to have full control over his head to talk to Gaby. Coffee too then, was out of the question, since wrecking his nerves could not help him at all.

It was getting late. Illya, who had been sitting on the couch for the last hour, doing nothing, decided to start playing a game of chess against himself. If he was lucky enough, he would lose himself in the strategies, and time would pass.

Two hours later, Illya was hesitating on whether he should move his knight or one of his last pawns. The door opened, and Gaby came in. She looked tired from her day of work, her arms full of paperwork. She dropped the files on the living room table, then looked at Illya, breathed out and said:

“Hello there.”

Illya answered naturally. “Good evening Gaby.” The obvious sentence. The one they shared each day, when they did not leave U.N.C.L.E. headquarters together. Illya almost expected Gaby to answer something sarcastic, something like ‘Oh, you decided to talk again?’ But no. She sat down on the sofa, beside Illya, and sighed. A long sigh, as she combed her hand through her hair.

She then looked at Illya, and he looked at her. She was tired. He was worn out. Illya wondered which one of them would give in first. He was already feeling a corner of his lips twitching up, and there were some sparkles in her eyes, shyly twinkling.

“Look Gaby I have to–”

“Illya I want you to know–”

They both stopped talking at the same time, sharing an awkward laughter. Illya then gestured at Gaby to talk first. She nodded her thanks, her eyes fixed on her hands which were resting in her lap, the fingers intertwined.

“Illya, I… I am sorry. The other day, I really should not have reacted the way I did, told you–”

“No. I… I was the one to start.” Illya cut her. It was true, he had been the one to start, to barge into Napoleon’s room out of jealousy. She had hurt him, Illya would not deny it. Still, if he looked at the whole situation, he was guilty. He would not let her take the full blame.

Gaby took his hand then, and smiled. “Illya. Even if you did act like… I understand. I tried to help you. You and Mr Solo. You seemed so miserable, struggling with your feelings and… I understood it was difficult for you, but I had to do something for him. He was wasting away, with no sign of improvement. I do not know, and do not want to know, what triggered his conscious back, if anything. But I should have talked to you before doing anything.”

Gaby talked quickly, her hand squeezing Illya’s. Illya who did not know what to think. She was right, one hundred percent right. She had only tried to help when he had barely been able to say a few words to Napoleon. She was right, also, in saying that she should have talked to him. But Illya knew himself well.

“I would have reacted badly either way. You know it.”

Gaby nodded. Illya went on, hoping that the words would come naturally to him:

“I do not know why I felt so jealous. I should not have, but I felt like you were trespassing. It was as if you had betrayed me. But Napoleon is no property of mine, he never was, and saving him does not give me any rights. I should be the one apologising.”

“The both of us should,” added Gaby. “And so, may I say that we are both fools?”

Illya nodded, his smile broadening a bit. “Yes we are. We acted like stupid people.” There were a few more words he needed to say to Gaby. He needed the words to be as meaningful as possible, heartfelt. “Gaby, even if the guilt is shared, I am sincerely sorry.”

“I am sorry too. And I hope that we will remember not to be so foolish again in the future.”

Illya chuckled. They would try. Gaby laughed then, as if she had been waiting for days to do that. She laughed, and Illya fully joined her. It felt good. It felt like coming home, back to normal. They were not made to hold grudges against each other, neither through anger nor guilt. And so they laughed at the world and their own stupidity. They laughed for their friendship. Then, breathless, Gaby said:

“We really are the perfect pair, are we not?” Illya nodded enthusiastically. Gaby went on, her voice still full of mirth: “Besides, I am sure Mr Waverly will be glad to know we made up. He was growing mad of seeing us sulking! He likes us too much.”

Even if Illya still smiled sincerely at Gaby, the mention of Mr Waverly brought up questions in his mind. Should he tell Gaby what had happened with Mr Waverly? And what about his visit to Napoleon? The voice, the movements, the hand… Illya wondered if it would do any good to talk about it. On the other hand, he did not want to hide anything from Gaby. This was not their way. They did not need any secrets between them. Illya decided to tackle the matter differently. He took a breath and said:

“By the way, have you visited Napoleon today?”

“No,” Gaby shook her head. “Mr Waverly kept me busy the whole day.” She got up from the couch and went into the kitchen. For a split second, Illya was afraid it was because she did not want to risk talking about Napoleon. In fact, she came back less than a minute later with two glasses filled with transparent liquid –which had more chances to be vodka than water– and handed one of them to Illya. “Why do you ask?”

“Mr Waverly convinced me to go visit Napoleon. I know you said–”

Gaby raised a finger, her mouth slightly pouting. She looked Illya straight in the eye. “It does not matter anymore. I thought we had settled that. I did not really mean what I said that day. I am actually glad you went back.”

Illya was relieved beyond words. He knew Gaby had forgiven him, and he had forgiven her, but to hear her say that she had not meant her previous words was something else.

“All right. So, Mr Waverly convinced me to go see him, his arguments hit home. So I went,” Illya paused then, his eyes searching Gaby for a sign of support, “and he talked to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for all your love and support. Next chapter on Thursday :)


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, almost on time!  
> Will I ever change? Will Illya ever change?

Gaby blinked three times, surprise written all over her face. She drank her glass in one gulp, put the glass on the living room table. Still standing, she asked:

“Mr Solo talked to you? Are you… this question is stupid.”

“Yes I am sure. It was not very clear, he had trouble, and said only two words, but…”

“What did he say?” Gaby had clasped her hands together, looking somewhat excited.

“He said... I told you it was not very clear. I suppose it meant something like ‘you came back’ or ‘why did you come back?’ I understood ‘come’ and ‘back’.” Gaby’s smile broadened. “I talked to him then. I told him there were no reasons why I would not come back, but I do not even know if he was glad to see me back.”

Illya had barely finished his sentence that, out of sudden, Gaby threw her arms around him, squeezing him hard.

“Of course, he was glad to see you, why would you think he would not?”

Illya lowered his eyes. “Because I have not always been correct to him, you know that very well.”

“What I know, mister, is that with how I talked to him about you since I came back, if he heard me and understood, there is no way he does not want to see you!”

Before registering the meaning behind Gaby’s words, Illya only heard I talked to him about you. About you. She talked to Napoleon about him. He was not paranoid. There was no reason to get angry, not now, especially not now. They had just made up, Illya would never forgive himself if he were to break that newfound peace just yet. He answered then, trying to keep his voice calm. Trying not to let any negative feeling show.

“What did you tell him?”

Gaby laughed, visibly startled. Illya realised she had not at all expected that question, but something more in-character from him. Anger, a shout or two, him getting up from the couch, arms raised, voice raised? No, not now. She finally said: “Oh, I did not tell him anything you would not want me to tell, nor anything too personal. I told him the most exact recollection of these last weeks’ events I could find. I told him what you said to me when the two of you first came back from Paris--”

‘ _ I was thinking about the man I worked with in Paris.’ _

‘ _ You miss him?’ _

‘ _ No. I don’t think that Mr Waverly was correct with him. He dismissed him with no thank you, nothing.’ _

‘ _ You liked working with him.’ _

‘ _ No, I do not even like him.’ _

‘ _ I don’t know. I’ve got the feeling that… I treated him wrong. Mr Waverly treated him wrong.’ _

‘ _ Then why do you want to see him again?’ _

So Gaby remembered this? Her voice became less distinct for Illya as he was losing himself in his thoughts. He was thinking of the return journey, of the debriefing with Mr Waverly… He had been puzzled then. He had not understood why Mr Waverly had dismissed Napoleon like he had, nor why Napoleon had not reacted. There was something frightening in this lack of reaction. It had not been so obvious then, but it was now. Napoleon was used to it. This had not been the first time he had worked for Mr Waverly, and whatever was the contract between them… as Mr Waverly had said, he had tried to help Napoleon, but ended up no better than the others. Who were those others? The CIA? Now that they had fired him and destroyed his life, it was illogical that they would still use him. Maybe other organisations, or more simply his clients. His everyday clients, about whom Illya preferred not to think. Gaby was still talking, her hands and eyes moving. Engrossed in her tale, she had not noticed Illya’s lack of attention. All the others. Whoever they were, Illya would not be like them. He had tried to find out who Napoleon was, he had wanted to show him respect and he had come back to rescue him… Gaby’s voice was a little bit higher now.

“--him how heroic you were in Paris. That you disobeyed Mr Waverly for him, and risked your life and career! No really, Illya I do not see why Mr Solo would not want you to come back. You should not worry too much. The two of you did have a rough start, but after some apologies and thanks your relationship will be ready for a fresh start.”

Illya had not listened to everything Gaby had said, but he thought he had understood what she had meant. He was not surprised, to know that she had tried to help. Illya did not know yet if there was an ulterior motive behind this, but he would not press the matter. A fresh start… maybe that was Gaby’s reason for helping. Illya tried his best for his voice not to sound hopeful:

“Do you think we can?”

Gaby smiled sweetly. “It depends. Do you want one?”

Illya did not answer. Yes, he wanted to make a fresh start with Napoleon, and learn to know him. Yet, Illya was not sure he liked Napoleon. Deep inside, he was not sure of what he wanted. Gaby must have read it in his eyes, for she got up from the couch and kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s late, I am going to bed. Think about it Illya, sleep on it. You have time.”

She then left the living room, and Illya soon followed her. He lay down on the bed, his clothes still on, his thoughts in a turmoil. He wanted to find the answer to his question, but he very well that it would not be that easy, nor that quick. Illya closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.

_ A fresh start… do you want one? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed :)   
> Thank you for all your love and support, see you on Sunday!


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chaaaapter! Enjoy ~

Illya woke up feeling refreshed. A weight had been lifted off his chest the previous evening, and he had slept well as a result.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, Illya went to the kitchen to find some croissants on the table, and a post it on the fridge ‘no more coffee, sorry not sorry’. He took a croissant, sat down and ate. It would be harder to wake up without his usual cup of dark drug… well there was a coffee machine in the Headquarters, he would have to make do. Perhaps Gaby would buy coffee, since she was the one to finish it. Maybe he would if he had time, after paying Napoleon a visit.

Seldom had a day of work seemed so short to Illya. He organised some paperwork during the morning, had lunch with Gaby in the mess hall –she would buy coffee, and replenish the fridge– and then he spent the afternoon training new recruits.

Illya jumped in a taxi as soon as he was out of the Headquarters. He was looking forward to know if Napoleon had made progress, but also nervous.

What if Gaby had been wrong? What if they both had been wrong, what if Napoleon had not wanted to see him in the first place? Illya could have misinterpreted Napoleon’s words… He would soon know anyway. Illya hoped so. There was the possibility that Napoleon was not yet able to tell him, to show him that he did not want Illya around. No. Illya did not want to think about it. It would bring no good. He would go, talk and see. And there was no reason for Napoleon not to want to see him. Gaby had said so, and she had to be right.

In front of the medical facility, Illya straightened his jacket. He went in, walking straight to Napoleon’s room. The door was closed, and Illya heard no voices. Napoleon was alone then, very well.

Illya turned the doorknob and went in. After a few steps in, Illya realised that Napoleon had not moved. He had not looked at his visitor, and it was almost like he was back in deep coma. Illya felt cold sweat creep down his back. It was impossible, it was impossible, Napoleon was asleep. That was the answer. All Illya had to do was wait, sit nearby and wait for him to wake up. When he went to the left side of the bed, Illya noticed something off. Off but somehow comforting. Napoleon’s hand was again hanging out of the covers, unmoving. He was sleeping, and Illya was not trying to convince himself at all.

Illya took Napoleon’s hand in his then, putting it back on the covers like he had done the day before. He half hoped the movement would wake Napoleon up, but nothing happened. Illya then sat down beside the bed, regretting not having brought anything with him to pass the time. He could talk, maybe the sound of his voice would be enough to wake Napoleon up and to cure Illya’s boredom, but now that he thought about it, it was stupid. He had not been able to utter one coherent or gentle word when Napoleon had still been in a coma, but now that he was sleeping it was okay? Illya shook his head. He would wait, and silently. The machines were quietly beeping, and soon Illya closed his eyes.

“–in… wake…”

Illya opened his eyes suddenly. He had fallen asleep after a few minutes, and it was Napoleon’s weak voice that woke him up. Illya looked at Napoleon, who had turned his head towards him and who slowly smiled. Illya blinked, trying to shake the blurry feeling of sleep off his system. He then smiled too –be friendly dammit!– and said:

“I am sorry, you were asleep and I too fell asleep while waiting.”

Napoleon did not answer. A corner of his mouth twitched even higher, and a sparkle passed through his eyes. Illya, more comfortable now that he had an audience, went on speaking:

“I suppose you know Gaby? She kept you company while I was… not myself. We are flatmates, but she must have told you that. She is nice is she not? We had a fight about a week ago. I hope she did not tell you about it, it was not glorious. I was quite miserable after that, but yesterday we made up. I am happy we did. She helped me a lot you know, she tried to help you too, but I do not know if you…”

Napoleon nodded, slowly. Illya’s smile turned embarrassed. He was glad that Napoleon remembered Gaby, she deserved it. How stupid he had been, being jealous! Illya would not tell this to Napoleon, not so soon. There would be more conversations between them in the future, and if they really made a fresh start, the moment would come when Illya would no longer feel ashamed. He would not rush anything.

Over the week that followed, Illya tried to visit Napoleon every day. Sometimes his job would keep him busy throughout the day, but he always apologised afterwards. He had not yet asked Gaby if she still saw Napoleon. Yet, each day, he realised how Napoleon’s health was improving. He was not yet forming coherent sentences, but his words were less slurred, and the few movements he made seemed more controlled Illya held on to those words and gestures. Each of them was a sign that Napoleon had a chance to fully recover.

As he came home on a Saturday evening after his daily visit, Illya told Gaby:

“I have the answer to your question. I want for us to make a fresh start.”

Gaby shrugged, eyes twinkling and mischievous. “I knew it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoep you enjoyed, thank you so much for your love and support. See you on Wednesday :D


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter (!!!)  
> Enjoy ~

Illya might have wanted a fresh start with Napoleon, and now wanted also to spend more time with him, helping him recover, but he had not a say in everything that happened. For instance, the morning after his last conversation –if he could call them conversation– with Napoleon, Mr Waverly summoned him to his office.

Once Illya got there, Mr Waverly greeted him and gestured for him to take a seat. Illya complied.

“I can see that you are doing much better Mr Kuryakin, am I right?”

“Yes Sir.”

Mr Waverly smiled. “And so is Mr Solo, though I know you already know that. I am glad he is improving.”

“I am glad too Sir,” answered Illya.

Illya knew that Mr Waverly had more to say. He was not impatient to learn what it was though, since he already had a hunch. It sounded like work. Illya was conflicted. He wanted to get back to real, serious work, else he would die of boredom before the end of the year. Yet, right now, he would have preferred to stay here in New York, and to go on with his daily routine. He stifled a dry chuckle. He was getting soft, he should have known routines were dangerous.

Mr Waverly opened one of his desk drawers, and said, as he was searching for something inside:

“Since everything is going so well, I thought it would be a good idea to put you back on real active duty.” He took a file out of the drawer. “It is nothing too challenging of course. Here, have a look at that.”

Mr Waverly handed him the file, and Illya took it, trying not to let his reluctance show. He opened the file and read.

The mission would take place in Egypt. Nothing too challenging indeed. Illya had to contact an informer who pretended to have information about an arm dealer he had previously worked with in Cairo. If Illya judged the information to be relevant, he was to put the informer in a safe place and contact Mr Waverly, who would then decide the course of action. The mission should not take more than a week, since they would normally not yet confront the arm dealer. Illya closed the file.

“All right Sir, I suppose everything has been taken care of?”

“Yes of course. Plane tickets, hotel room, equipment… Miss Dancer will give you everything when she will drive you to the airport. I would like you to leave today. The informer may already be in danger.”

Illya nodded. “Of course Sir.”

“I wish you luck then. Please join Miss Dancer at eleven o’clock. She will wait for you in the main hall.”

He then shook hands with Mr Waverly, and went back to his office. He had about one hour before his departure. He would grab some lunch at the airport, and he had nothing special to do in his office, so that left him time to say goodbye to Gaby. Besides, he had something to ask her, a favour.

She was in her office, reading scientific reports and sipping a cup of coffee. She looked up from the reports once she heard the door open.

“Oh, what brings you here?”

Illya sat down opposite her, and answered:

“Mr Waverly is sending me on a mission in Egypt.”

Gaby seemed to be thinking for a couple of seconds, she drank some coffee and then said:

“Nice. The weather will be warm, for a change.”

Illya shot an eyebrow up. She was infuriating sometimes, and right now she was doing it on purpose. Eventually, she said:

“So, what is the mission about? Some dull stuff? You do not seem enchanted by the idea.”

“Verifying information, contacting people. Mr Waverly said ‘nothing too challenging’ to quote him.”

Gaby laughed at that. “Yes, and knowing our luck, you will get captured or do something stupid and it will become quite the challenge!”

Illya frowned. She was exaggerating, as always. Gaby patted his shoulder.

“Come on, I am pulling your leg! What did you really want to tell me?”

Right. The real reason for his visit –not that saying goodbye was not reason enough. He took a breath and, locking eyes with her, said:

“Can you take care of Napoleon for me? While I am away?”

Gaby, all of sudden serious, answered, her hand gripping Illya’s shoulder: “You know I will. You can trust me.”

Illya smiled, got up from his chair and hugged her. He was leaving for only a week, but he would miss her. He always did when they were not doing missions together. But he trusted her. During his absence, she would make sure that nothing untoward would happen to Napoleon.

Two hours later, when Illya’s plane took off, flying towards Egypt, he closed his eyes and reclined in the ever-so-small seat. He was only leaving for a routine mission, and everything would be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, thank you very much for your love and support, and see you on Sunday!


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter... I might be one day late, but life happens. Enjoy!

The mission was indeed quite simple. Illya stayed for a week and a half with the informer, all the while being monitored by Mr Waverly from New York. They did not know yet if they would frontally dismantle the arms dealer’s business, or if they would wait until they had a better knowledge of his goals and clients. It would be, then, mostly an observation job, and Mr Waverly decided to swap Illya with Mark Slate.

Illya was looking forward to be back in New York. He wondered how Napoleon’s state had improved in so little time, but did not dare to hope for too much. The flight back seemed to last forever. So did the mission’s debriefing with Mr Waverly. Illya did not see why Mr Waverly needed to debrief, since they had spent hours talking during the mission. Yet, after five minutes of Illya being bored in his chair and totally showing it, Mr Waverly freed him and told him that he was excused for the day. Illya had no trouble understanding the subtext: Mr Waverly was giving him time to visit Napoleon. Illya thanked his boss and was out of the Headquarters in a few seconds.

There was a spring in Illya’s steps as he climbed the stairs of the medical facility. In the corridor, he noticed that Napoleon’s door was open, and he could hear voices. Two voices, one female, one male.

“So I will be back this evening. Try to be patient, the doctors still want to keep their eye on you.”

“If you promise to come back, I can wait.” Was this Napoleon’s voice? Illya recognised it, but if Napoleon spoke so well, that could only mean one thing… He was too close to foolishly hope.

“No, no, no, none of this will work with me Mr Solo. Rest, I will see you this evening.” The woman laughed and left the room. She was a middle-aged nurse, and she politely said hello to Illya as she held Napoleon’s door open for him. Illya answered and thanked her for the door, walking in the room.

Illya wanted to say ‘hello’ to Napoleon, but what he saw made him speechless. Napoleon was half-sitting in the bed, propped up on several white pillows. He was wearing light blue pyjamas, and there was a book sitting in his lap. He turned his head when he heard Illya enter, and a surprised smile graced his lips. Illya took a few steps forward. He should talk, he knew it. But seeing Napoleon like this…

“Are you not going to say hello?”

Illya blinked. So he had been right. God. Napoleon was back. Back to a normal state of consciousness. Illya felt a broad smile form itself on his face.

“You are…”

Napoleon’s own smiled broadened too. He slowly nodded.

“I am pretty much healed, if it is what you mean. The doctors should discharge me in a few days.”

He was besides the bed now, and Napoleon was looking at him with an amused gleam in his eyes.

“I did not remember you to be so tall, nor mute.”

Illya was beyond happy. Now, he felt the heat of victory rise within him. He had done it. They had done it. Illya laughed. A great, booming laughter that must have echoed within the whole corridor, if not the medical facility. The sassy tone in the voice, everything… Napoleon joined him, a weaker laughter but still full of mirth.

Suddenly, Illya felt a hand grab his, tugging, and he instinctively stooped. Napoleon extended his arms around Illya, and hugged him. The position was awkward, and after a few seconds Illya felt his back beginning to complain. Yet he did not care, and put his own arms around Napoleon.

“Thank you.” Illya heard Napoleon say near his ear, his voice lower. “Thank you for everything.”

If Illya had any remaining doubts about what Napoleon thought of him, they had been squashed down to nothingness. Rarely had someone shown him such gratefulness. Illya did not know what to say. He closed his eyes, and whispered back:

“I… Do not thank me, it is normal.”

It was a lame answer, Illya knew it, but he did not know what to say. He had done what had felt right. He had done the only thing he could do, but how could he say that to Napoleon. For him, it was too soon to spill it out, to speak about the reasons why he had risked so much. After all, Napoleon did not yet know that Illya had learned about who he really was.

Still not breaking the hug, Illya felt his smile disappear. Napoleon did not know. What if he did not want Illya to know? What if he judged him, what if he acted differently after? What if he pushed Illya back, what if he misunderstood his concern for pity? No, Illya thought. He must not think about that, not now. They were reunited, Napoleon was okay, he would be out of the medical facility soon and it was not the time to sulk. Illya schooled his features as they stopped hugging. He said, a tremor in his voice:

“I must apologize.”

“For what?” Napoleon asked, visibly surprised.

“I wanted to do it since… quite a long time. I am sorry for how I acted when we first met. I admit I was not very nice. I should not have treated you the way I did.”

Napoleon nodded, still smiling. “Apology accepted. I guess I was not the easiest companion either.” His eyes were colder now, deeper. “Besides, I am used to it.”

Illya felt a pang of pain stab his heart.  _ I am used to it. I am used to it… You, on the other hand, have shown him more regard than anybody else those past years. _ If what Illya had done was so kind, he preferred not to guess what Napoleon was used to. He would have to ask, one day, if he wanted for them to be friends. He would have to know, but he promised himself to wait until Napoleon was ready.

“This is not a reason.” Illya checked his watch. It was time to go, the visiting hours where coming to an end. Yet, before he left, he had a last thing to say. Something to ask. “It is getting late. Can I… do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

“Please,” answered Napoleon, eyes locked with Illya. He extended his hand –still a bit shaky– and Illya shook it. It was warm, smaller than Illya’s. He had liked the contact.

“See you tomorrow,” said Illya.

Napoleon snorted. “Get out,” he said, half-laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it and thank you for your love and support. See you Wednesday evening :)


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter ~ Enjoy and while I am at it, thank you for reading and enjoying ;)

That evening, Illya was relatively happy. He could not forget his worries, nor the conversation that he was bound to have with Napoleon. Yet, he wanted to be happy now. He wanted to be happy for Napoleon, for himself too. He knew he should not hide his worries from Gaby, but tonight called for celebration. She must already know that Napoleon was healed, it must not have happened in one day.

When he arrived in his flat, Gaby was already here. She was reclining on the couch, and after a few questions and answers about their respective last missions, Illya said:

“I presume you know for Napoleon.”

Gaby smiled and answered: “Yes, of course. I was there, you were not, remember?” Illya frowned, and she went on, “Anyway, I suppose that you went to see him today?”

Illya nodded. “Yes. He was pretty happy to see me, and we… we did not talk much. He thanked me, I apologised for mistreating him in the beginning.”

Gaby put a hand on Illya’s shoulder. “It is okay. Whatever you did, I am sure he does not hold it against you. I am glad the two of you can properly talk again.”

“I am glad too.” Even if Illya tried to be convincing, his face must have betrayed his feelings, because Gaby looked at him with her ‘don’t try to fool me’ look. But she said nothing yet. She let out a short sigh and flashed a smile and said:

“What if we ordered some fancy takeaway to celebrate? I am too lazy to go out.”

“Good idea!” Illya was grateful that Gaby was not confronting him to his worries and shortcomings right now. Perhaps she was waiting for the right moment to corner him, maybe she needed some more information. _ Maybe _ , thought Illya,  _ maybe if she is happy for Napoleon, if she is happy for me, she just want to celebrate and enjoy the evening. _ Illya decided that this possibility was the right one for the moment. He himself was genuinely happy for Napoleon, and he wanted to enjoy the evening and night.

Gaby then phoned an expensive Indian restaurant that did takeaways, and fifteen minutes later the living room table was layered with boxes of spicy delicious food. They were not drinking alcohol yet, as nothing they had would do with the flavour of Indian delicacies. They laughed and joked while eating. It was nice. Illya had almost stopped thinking about his worries, and perhaps, that had been Gaby’s plan all along. He looked at her, searching for a clue, but she was mainly preoccupied by her dessert. Illya took a few pieces of Kaju katli before Gaby could eat them all, and ate. It was sweet, delicious. Lastly, when they had polished their plates, Illya served them a full glass of brandy, something sweeter than cold vodka, a perfect ending to their meal. It was already near midnight, and they were sipping their drinks, relaxed. From under half-lidded eyes, Gaby was watching Illya. He had closed his own eyes, reclining in the soft couch, his glass secure in his left hand. Several times, Gaby had opened her mouth as if to talk, but in the end they both went to bed to digest the meal and the alcohol with only a goodnight. Illya fell asleep almost at once well, the alcohol and full stomach helping.

When Illya woke up, something was amiss. He was in a familiar room, but it was not his room. It was too fancy, with a king size bed and a phone on the bedside table. There were burgundy curtains underneath which Illya could see sunlight. He got up from the bed, searching for his watch. He finally found it on top of a liquor cabinet. It took him a few seconds to realise that this was not his watch. It was too big, too flashy. Where was he? Angrily, Illya yanked the curtains open. Outside, the morning sun was shining on New York. That was wrong. Where the hell was he? Before he could start to panic, Illya opened the door. It was unlocked. Barefoot, he walked into a corridor. He had been here before. There were other doors, with golden numbers nailed to them. Of all these doors, only one was open. Illya felt an uncharacteristic curiosity rise within. His feet began to walk as if they possessed their own will. They were taking Illya to the open door. Once there, Illya glanced inside the room. It was almost the same as the one in which Illya had awoken, except that there were two people inside. One was tall, standing up in the middle of the room. The other one was on his knees at the feet of the first one. Illya felt an electric shock pierce his spine. He knew where he was. His feet were now glued to the floor, and he did not feel his body anymore. He could not move. He had already been here. He was in Paris. He had already lived this. He knew what would happen. He knew who those men were. Illya saw himself talk. He did not hear anything, but his lips were moving, his hand too, a threatening gesture, and the man on his knees, who had not yet been Napoleon moved. He moved quickly, getting up in one swift movement. Then, too quickly, Napoleon kissed Illya. Illya saw himself answer, before violently pushing Napoleon back. Napoleon swiftly left the room and walked through Illya, who was still standing in the doorframe. The door closed itself, and Illya turned around to see that the corridor had changed. It was no longer the hotel’s corridor, with wooden doors and a nice carpet, it was white, hard concrete, raw lights. Illya saw Napoleon open a door, and go in a room. The door closed, but Illya could not move. His feet were roots, and before Illya could realise where he was, he heard a single gunshot.

He woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed :) See you Sunday!


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter... and getting significantly closer to the end! Enjoy!

Illya was breathless. It had taken him about five minutes to realise that he was in his room, in the real world, and not in the World of Fucked-Up Dreams. He combed a hand through his hair and let his head fall back on the pillows. All right. A quick look at his alarm clock told Illya that he had more than enough time to fall back to sleep –it was half past four– but his body knew better than that. Now that he was more awake, Illya was feeling all the tiny wrong things that proved to him yet again that he was entirely awake. His skin, for example, drenched in sweat while the room was cold. The too hot sheets, the shiver down his spine when he climbed out of the bed. He was growingly aware of another consequence of his dream, and he did not need this now. Illya went to his bathroom, got rid of the problem as swiftly and efficiently as he could, all the while trying to keep his mind blank. Images from the dream kept coming back, mixing with actual memories of the events. He was seeing the scene from two perspectives now, seeing Napoleon on his knees, close, so close to Illya, and then kissing him, mocking him? Illya did not want, did not need those memories now. Back in Paris, when it had happened for real, neither the kiss nor Napoleon had had any effect on Illya. He had been angry, annoyed… Why was he reacting now?

Having finished, Illya washed his hands, also splashing water on his face to freshen himself up. He went back to his bed but simply sat down on top of the covers, his feet bare against the cold floor.

Why was he reacting now?

Illya tried to look for rational reasons. It was natural. It was not linked with the dream. It could not be linked with the dream. Not since he had learned who Napoleon really was. When, in Illya’s mind, Napoleon had just been a whore, nothing else, nothing more, any undesired feelings he might have had –if he had had any, which had not been the case– would have been easily blamed on Napoleon and discarded.  _ It is his job. It is for the mission. Full stop. _ Now, the mere thought that his –let us face it, normal– reaction might have been induced by the dream, by the dream of this kiss in Paris was unbearable. Because Napoleon was no longer some nameless whore, but someone Illya wanted to get to know.

Now that Napoleon had awoken, Illya wanted more than ever not to think about his first impression. Thanks to Miss Belmont and Victoria, he had caught a glimpse of who Napoleon really was. It had changed everything, and, with Napoleon’s consent, Illya would ask him questions. He would ask questions to Mr Waverly too, to understand how they had come to this point. He knew nearly nothing, when he thought about it.

Illya got up again from the bed. He had decided that his inconvenient erection was not because of the dream, and he would stick to that decision. Illya sat down at the kitchen table. He would wait until Gaby woke up, in roughly one hour, to make coffee. He was not hungry. Illya looked around him, and saw the bottle of brandy forgotten on the kitchen counter. He could blame the dream on alcohol. Alcohol and tiredness did not do well together. He had woken up now, and was in control of his mind and body. Illya smiled to himself. The clock ticked by, and Illya was dozing off, his head on the kitchen table. Little by little, the sky was getting clearer. It was still night, but somewhere in the east, over the sea, some sunlight could be seen. In the flat, an alarm clock rang. Five o’clock and a half. Illya heard water running, a door being opened and closed. Gaby appeared in the kitchen a few seconds later, still in her pyjamas.

She sat down opposite Illya, who got up, stretching his arms.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, what are you doing up so early?”

Illya began preparing the coffee, dark and strong like they both drank it. He also took the bread from the cupboard, and fished some milk and jam from the fridge.

“I had a bad dream. Probably drank and ate too much.”

Gaby nodded, it was probably too early for her to think of a sassy comeback. She thanked Illya for the coffee, and began to fix herself two strawberry jam toasts.

Illya drank his own coffee. He was still not hungry, and was waiting for Gaby to be awake enough to ask her a question. She usually gave good advice, and Illya knew, though it was hard to admit it, that he did not listen enough to her. This time, he would. She was less involved than him when it came to Napoleon, so her point of view could only be more objective.

When Gaby got up to make herself a second cup of coffee, Illya said:

“Gaby, I have a question do you think you can help me?”

She raised an eyebrow, and answered:

“It depends. Want some more coffee?”

“Yes please. I… It is about Napoleon.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Gaby gave Illya his second coffee with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

Illya took a deep breath. “I… I do not know how I should act–”

“You can begin by buying him a drink,” Gaby cut Illya with a knowing smirk. He went beet red and answered too quickly.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean! There was a reason I disobeyed Mr Waverly to help him. I learned things in Paris, and I do not know how to tackle the subject with him. I do not know if I should bring Mr Waverly in. I do not know if I should wait or talk to him as soon as possible.”

Gaby let out a long sigh. “Well, that is difficult. I do not know the whole story, and I trust you to tell me in due time. But if Mr Waverly is involved, or should I say, as Mr Waverly is knee deep in this snow, you should talk to him. I think he can help you. Besides, showing you trust him will do no harm.”

Illya slowly nodded. Gaby was right. Mr Waverly was partly responsible for everything that had happened, and it was only right to tell him of his worries. It would not be easy, but Illya had the gut to do it. Napoleon would be out of the medical facility in a few days, and who knew what would happen afterwards. Illya needed to tie all the loose ends now, before Napoleon slipped away between his fingers again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, see you in a few days!


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, just for you lucky readers!

Gaby and Illya left their flat together to go to work, and went their separate way once in the Headquarters. Gaby waved at Illya, mouthing ‘talk to him’ before disappearing into her office. Illya went into his own office, checked his mail –nothing there– and phoned Mr Waverly’s secretary.

“No, he has not yet arrived, what can I do for you?”

Illya swallowed. He would not be deterred now.

“Can you please notify him as soon as possible that I would like to talk to him?”

“I can do that. Let me have a look at his schedule… There might be a possibility around nine o’clock, after his reunion with the English Bureau. Of course I will have to check with him first. I will call you back when I have Mr Waverly’s answer Mr Kuryakin.”

“Thank you.”

Illya hung up a few seconds after the secretary did. He did not have much to do until nine, and so Illya was getting ready for an early morning of boredom.

He should rehearse the upcoming meeting with Mr Waverly, think of questions. Yet, Illya did not manage to think about the meeting. It was a blurry future in his mind, and he knew that he would do what he always did. He would listen to his instinct, and the words would flow then, at the right moment. Some called him impulsive, and they might be right.

Half an hour passed, dull.

The phone rang. Well that was quick, thought Illya. He picked up the phone, and, just as he had hoped, it was Mr Waverly’s secretary on the other end of the line. She told him that Mr Waverly would see him at quarter to nine sharp, in his office. Illya thanked her, and hung up first. He got up from his chair and left his office. He went to the coffee machine, drank two cups of dark, liquid bravery and walked to the elevator. He would be ten minutes early, but it was better than being late. He could wait, wait in front of the large door of Mr Waverly’s office.

While he was waiting, Illya did not pay attention at all to Mr Waverly’s secretary, who kept glancing at him from behind her stack of papers. He was too concentrated on his watch to care. Counting the minutes, and not thinking about what he might say. Little by little, a knot was tightening around his stomach. In Illya’s head, Gaby’s voice and her confident words comforted him. He was right to speak to Mr Waverly. It would make things even, at last. Illya would no longer act behind his boss’s back, and in exchange, he hoped Mr Waverly would at least cooperate. Well, it was highly possible he did, if Illya looked back at their last conversations. Mr Waverly had seemed genuinely sorry and worried too. Besides Illya would not ask much. Almost nothing to be honest, one simple question...

Eventually, the door opened. Mr Waverly held it open for him, and Illya went in the office. Mr Waverly smiled, yet Illya was more and more nervous by the second.

“Hello Mr Kuryakin. I may have an idea as to why you asked to meet me today. Still, I would prefer to hear it from you. Please sit down.”

Illya complied, and took a deep breath. His boss was on his side, he knew it, yet he was wary. It was now or never.

“Sir, I thought we needed to talk about Mr Solo. He will be leaving the hospital soon.”

Mr Waverly, who had sat back behind his desk, laid his hands on top of the desk. He answered:

“I know, and I think you are right. I have been wrong since the beginning. I should have explained everything, but it is not that easy. Especially concerning Mr Solo. He needs to be there so we can talk. If I am to explain why I kept things from you, you will have to know who he is.”

The answer was calm, logical, exactly what Illya should have expected. Yet, Illya was surprised. Mr Waverly was not only entirely willing to accept his faults and explain everything, but he also wanted to involve Napoleon. It was such a change… Illya still remembered when Mr Waverly had discarded Napoleon out of the room like he did not matter. He also already... it took a few seconds for Illya to realise that Mr Waverly had completely misunderstood his intentions! That he had done it intentionally was something else entirely. Perhaps Illya had not asked the right question. He did not need to know who Napoleon was, since he already knew. He had not learned in the best of circumstances, but he knew the facts. He did not need to hear them again. He did not need to hear them with Napoleon by his side… this conversation was supposed to help him talk to Napoleon!

“Sir, I already know… Besides that… that was not exactly my question.”

“Excuse me?” Mr Waverly’s voice was half-surprised half-polite, not exactly what Illya had expected. Illya decided to answer as straightforwardly as possible:

“I wanted advice on how to tackle the subject of his identity with Napoleon. I already know who he really is.”

Mr Waverly sighed. Illya would not be deterred so easily, he had to get his message through, so he went on:

“He does not know that I know and–”

“Mr Kuryakin, you know what Lucia Belmont told you. Believe me, Mr Solo can give you a more accurate account of his own life and past, if he so wishes.” Mr Waverly cut Illya, his voice suddenly both colder and tired.

It was evident that Waverly knew what Illya knew, but also so much more. Illya nodded. Yes, of course. Still, Mr Waverly went on:

“I will ask him myself if he wants to talk about this to you.”

No! No… Illya did not know if Napoleon and Mr Waverly had talked since they had returned from their first trip to Paris. Of course, the common past shared by Napoleon and Mr Waverly ran deeper than what Illya could have thought. Truth be told, Illya was afraid of the relationship between Mr Waverly and Napoleon. In his mind, Napoleon had been used, and it would only be normal for him not to talk to Mr Waverly. What if he felt as if Illya, by knowing who he was, had also used him? What if he did not– Since when, suddenly wondered Illya, have I become so paranoid about Napoleon? Since when did Napoleon’s opinion of him mattered? He did not know. It had grown little by little, invisible until it was too late. Now this feeling had its root running too deep into Illya’s mind and chest, there was no pulling it off.

“Are you sure this is a good idea Sir?” That might have come out too fast. Illya had not wanted to say it like that, but it was what he got for letting his instinct speak. “No, I mean… I planned to visit him after work today, so I can tell him.”

A tiny knowing smile graced Mr Waverly. Illya had the feeling that his boss was reading into his thoughts, and knowing exactly why he was saying that. Illya would have felt embarrassed if he had been somebody else. Finally, Mr Waverly answered:

“Well, go ahead then. I have quite a busy schedule, but, we should be able to talk on Wednesday morning same hour as today. Mr Solo will be out of the medical facility by then. Tell him I would like to have a few words with him.”

Illya was grateful that Mr Waverly had accepted to let him speak to Napoleon, yet he could not help but feel as if there was more to it, a hidden idea or something equally distressing. Well, Illya would have time to think about that later. It was safer for now to accept, sign the contract before Mr Waverly decided to change his mind.

“Thank you Sir. But… Will he know what it is about?”

Somehow, it did not feel right for Illya to hide this to Napoleon.

“He will, believe me he will,” answered Mr Waverly, his tone leaving no room for answer. He got up from his chair, soon followed by Illya. They shook hands, an Illya was out of the office with a ‘have a nice day Sir’.

He did not know if this conversation had untangled anything, if it had been useful. The knot around his stomach was, if possible, even tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? I hope so! Thank you for your love and support, and see you Sunday!


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Sundays evening updates always turn out to be monday mornings... enjoy!

Sadly, the knot in Illya’s stomach did not untighten during the afternoon. As difficult as it was to admit it, the Russian agent was afraid. He was genuinely afraid of Napoleon’s reaction. He would not back down though, it was not a possibility.

Illya could not eat at lunch. Gaby looked worried for him –she had been the one to convince him to speak to Mr Waverly after all– but she managed to stay comforting.

When Illya stepped inside the medical facility, he wished she was with him now, but it was better if he was alone to do this. He was there on a mission, after all. All he needed was to trust Mr Waverly’s judgement, and to trust Napoleon.

When Illya knocked on the room’s door and went in, he found Napoleon sitting on his bed, looking better than he had in a long time. Of course, there were tiny details that Illya saw at once, details that shattered the image.

The mark of the IV on the back of a hand, another in the crease of the elbow.

Dark circle under the eyes.

Thin legs, thinner torso.

Pale skin, still pale even now that Napoleon had come back to life.

Slightly longer hair, yet not unkempt.

But Napoleon had the same charming smile as ever, which lit up his face on the very moment his eyes met Illya’s. Was it a true smile? Was it faked, was Napoleon smiling out of habit?

Whatever was the nature of his smile, it was Napoleon who broke the silence:

“Good evening Kuryakin.”

“Good evening.”

Illya answered at once, mirroring the words, and realised soon after that these two words, good evening, should have been followed by a name. He did not know how to call Napoleon. They were not familiar enough for a first name basis, were they? However, using a Mister and the last name felt awfully cold to Illya. You saved me, I saved you, can be at least try to treat each other like more than acquaintances? Illya would have to take the first step, he supposed. He could not really ask that of Napoleon. Yet, before Illya had time to say anything, Napoleon spoke again:

“By the way, the doctors are kicking me out tomorrow, I am quite looking forward to be free again.”

“I am glad too,” Illya answered, genuine. He himself had never stayed so long in a hospital, so he could only imagine the boredom. Furthermore, Napoleon finally leaving the medical facility was the sign that he was healed. He was okay now, safe and sound. Illya was getting so close to the fresh start he wanted so much. He was happy, yet Napoleon’ next words darkened his mood.

“Besides, you will not be forced to visit me every day. That will be quite a change.”

An alarm rang somewhere inside Illya, nearly making him jump out of his skin. What was Napoleon thinking? He answered, words coming too quickly out of his mouth to be really coherent:

“No no I! Do not be mistaken! I quite like, what I mean is, uh, I do not feel forced at all to visit you!”

Napoleon did not laugh, but simply arched an eyebrow, his smile a little bit larger. “I am glad to know that. I would not have you feel like you… bah forget it.”

This time, Illya felt that the smile was genuine. He could not keep himself from wondering what Napoleon’s words might have been if he had not stopped himself, but the warm, short-lived sparkle in Napoleon’s eyes was enough to lift his spirits again.

Silence fell over the room again. Illya did not know what to say next, he had to find a way to tackle the subject of the upcoming conversation with Mr Waverly…

“I did not ask you, forgive me, but how are you feeling?”

“Quite well. I recall pretty much everything that happened in Paris and before. Thank you for everything.”

Illya took a step forward, not knowing why. But to have Napoleon thanking him like that… did he know how much Illya himself was thankful?

“You already thanked me,” this was where the name was lacking, burning Illya’s tongue. “I already told you–”

“I know. Still,” Napoleon looked down, cutting him. “I want to be sure that you know how much it… how much I appreciate it.”

Something warm lit up inside Illya. A small voice chastised him, of course he appreciates it, do you not remember what Mr Waverly told you? ‘You,’ yes you idiot, ‘have shown him more regard than anybody else those past years.’ Of course he wants to thank you. Yet Illya did not really listen to it. It was deafened by the warmth, and for a few seconds –until someone knocked at the door– Illya forgot the reason behind his visit.

A nurse opened the door. She saw Illya inside, looked at him, and said, her voice clipped, “I am sorry Sir, but I need to perform a final check up on Mr Solo. Besides, the visiting hours are over. If you would be so kind as to leave him alone…”

Napoleon looked at the nurse, an annoyed gleam in his eyes. Illya stayed frozen in place. He did not want to leave now, not now!

The untimely arrival of the nurse had really upset Illya. He had not yet talked about the most important thing to Napoleon, and now he felt trapped between a rock and a hard place. The nurse’s glare burning through the back of his neck, Illya gathered up his guts and said:

“I have one last thing to ask you, Mr Waverly wants to speak to you, well to us both. He was waiting until the doctors decided to discharge you, and he wants to meet us as soon as possible.”

Strangely enough, Napoleon did not ask any question to Illya, who had expected something else than just a quick look of surprise on Napoleon’s face. Was Napoleon not finding what Illya had just asked him peculiar? Illya would have, in his place. Yet, puzzling Illya all the more, Napoleon only said:

“Soon, as in…”

Illya answered as fast as possible, trying to keep his voice even so as not to concern Napoleon.

“Wednesday? Mr Waverly told me he would be available around nine in the morning. ”

Napoleon answered, flashing yet another charming smile at Illya. “Wednesday? Very well, it will give me enough time for a bath, a change of clothes and a trip to my hairdresser. You can tell the old man that Wednesday morning is fine with me.”

Illya was more and more puzzled. Napoleon did not seem to mind at all talking with Waverly, even if he did not know what it would be about. Maybe he did not care, or did not imagine what the subject of the conversation would be. Did he think it would be about Paris? About the information Miss Belmont might have asked him or given him? Illya wondered again if it was a good idea to tell him. Mr Waverly would not like it, but Illya felt bad at the idea of hiding it from Napoleon.

From the door, the nurse cleared her throat. All right, thought Illya, I am going. It was not as if he could say anything else now. Alea jacta est, or so they say. Illya walked to the door, and smiled what he hoped was a reassuring or happy smile, not the lopsided thing that was probably dangling on his face.

“I will see you on Wednesday then, Goodbye.”

“See you!” Napoleon answered, waving.

Illya left the room under the glare of the nurse, and as he was getting farther and farther away from the room, his worries only grew.

What if Napoleon backed away once he realised what the discussion would be about? What if he felt betrayed by Illya?

That night, an even worse thought found its way into Illya’s brain, keeping him awake. Maybe Napoleon knew exactly what the discussion would be about. Maybe he would not come. Nothing was forcing him, and once outside of the facility, he would be entirely free to disappear as he had done the first time. This could explain why he did not seem bothered by the idea of talking to Mr Waverly.

The next day, the sick thought was still there, and Illya was now sure that Napoleon would not show up on Wednesday. He would abandon them, and he would be right to! Illya should never have talked to Mr Waverly beforehand, he should have been honest to Napoleon… It was hard to admit, the idea that Illya might not see him ever again.

Would Napoleon stay in New York, where his life seemed to be?

Would he take a plane to another state, maybe going as far as the West Coast?

How would Illya find him? Would he try, knowing very well that Napoleon would not want to be found?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoep you liked this chapter, ILY!


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! We are getting so close to the end, I cannot believe it!

 

Illya decided not to speak about his worries to Gaby. She had noticed his behaviour as soon as he had gone home after talking to Napoleon, but she did not ask any questions, ever the diplomat. Illya knew he was a fool, not to talk to her. If he did, she would comfort him, her logical arguments showing him that he had no reasons to be afraid. Yet he refused to talk, because deep within him he was ashamed. He was ridiculous, both paranoid and possessive. Napoleon was his own man, and he could think and do whatever he wanted. If he decided not to be bothered by the upcoming conversation with Waverly, why Illya had to? More than once in the last few hours, Illya wondered what was wrong with him. If only he had the answer, he would be able to fight his treacherous mind by himself.

Yet, when he woke up on Wednesday morning at half past five, he had no answers and a ton of bricks in his stomach. Since his weird dream about the hotel in Paris, Illya had not been plagued again by peculiar dreams, and he was thankful for that. He did not know if he would have been able not to go mad if he had had both the dreams and the worries buzzing in his head. He would have no doubt destroyed U.N.C.L.E.’s gym to calm his nerves.

He walked to the kitchen, finding Gaby listening to the radio, and the mere smell of coffee made him want to throw up. Gaby looked at him from behind her toast, a hint of pity in her eyes. She said nothing, and Illya disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. It did little good to his nerves, but he was feeling more awake. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Illya towel-dried his hair and thought about the clothes he would be wearing that day. He shrugged, why did he suddenly care? Today was no more important than any other day, and that sounded less convincing said out loud than in his head. He took his usual jacket, a plain shirt and a pair of trousers, put them on and was ready to leave his flat in less than five minutes. It was early, far too early to go to the Headquarters yet. When he left, Gaby eyeing him wearily, Illya was still feeling slightly nauseous. Maybe a walk by the square would help him relax.

Illya walked through the grassy expanse of the square, the tree partially hidden by the morning fog. A few early birds were walking their dogs or running, not minding him. On any other day it would have indeed been relaxing, yet Illya could not prevent himself from over-thinking the upcoming events. And so he became more and more distressed, more and more frustrated. Indeed, the longer he thought about the conversation, the more unlikely it seemed to him that Napoleon would show up. Why would he? Out of gratitude for Illya? No, that was stupid. Illya had saved Napoleon because Napoleon had saved Illya, an eye for an eye and no need to be grateful anymore. Besides, had Napoleon not been abducted because of Mr Waverly?

If Illya was Napoleon, he would not show up. He would not do it out of cowardice, but he would go on with his life, trying to forget… but what was Napoleon’s life? Illya knew so little… how could he imagine? What it felt like to fall from grace, to lose everything and be forced into a life such as Napoleon’s. Never, even in his darkest hours, Illya had lived such a humiliation. Could Napoleon want to go back to this life? But what else could he do? Illya imagined that, if he had had a chance, he would have found a way out, CIA or not. He was intelligent, he was headstrong –How could he be anything else to survive the tortures, the long hours? Illya did not remember if Miss Belmont had told him since how many years Napoleon had been disgraced. Illya did not know if he could trust her, but even Mr Waverly had lied to him. Why?

Was there a dark shadow looming over him, extending his hand to prevent him from talking? It was unlikely, or else why would he talk now? For a second, Illya fancied the idea that it was because of him. Mr Waverly had been shocked by his actions, afraid to lose him, and he would override his invisible superiors… as nice as the idea was, it was still stupid.

Illya sat down on a bench and closed his eyes. He had time, and whatever would happen, he had no way of influencing it now. He could only worry, he could only hope, he could only doubt… and remember.

Would Napoleon be as dashing as on the day they had met?

Illya had no trouble remembering the first time he had met Napoleon. Through the filter of his mind, he saw them both, seated in this café, Napoleon relaxed, Illya reluctant.

Napoleon smirking, Illya grumbling.

Napoleon wearing perfect clothes, each word charming.

Napoleon, who had had no choice but to be there, Napoleon who was no more willing than Illya had been. Napoleon who grinned and bore it.

Illya’s first words. I don’t want to work with you. He regretted them now. Who had he been to speak of want to someone who had no choice?

Illya hoped that Napoleon would show up. He got up from the bench, and started walking in the direction of the headquarters. He wanted so badly for Napoleon to show up, if only to apologize. To say he regretted having been an arrogant asshole.

New York was waking up now, Illya was still early. It would take some time to walk to the Headquarters, still he would have to face the building, the employees, waiting, waiting excruciating minutes for Napoleon not to show up. Illya walked.

He was getting closer to the Headquarters, and checked his watch. Barely seven and a half. He needed at most half an hour to get to the Headquarters? He should have slept. Will he come? Will he be there?

Looking at his feet, Illya arrived at five past eight. He opened the door, an automatic gesture, and suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He tensed up, ready to fight.

“Excuse me,” this voice, this tone… “But I have a rendezvous inside and I do not know the code for the door…”

Illya turned around at once, bewildered. He did not answer, mouth slightly open, eyes scanning the man in front of him. He could not believe it.

Napoleon smirked at him, and said, as charming as ever:

“You seem surprised to see me. Am I too early? Or is there a stain on my jacket?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, ILY!


	49. Chapter 49

“You seem surprised to see me. Am I too early? Or is there a stain on my jacket?”

Illya could not speak. Napoleon was looking at him, silent now, in his three piece black suit, in his shiny shoes, with his hair perfectly combed. Napoleon was looking at him, with the same intelligent, warm blue eyes that had unnerved Illya when they had first met.

“You came.”

Napoleon’s smile wavered for a second.

“Why, did you doubt I would come?”

Illya could feel the ground giving way under his feet. His worries had betrayed him, what could he say, what could he do now? Be honest, be honest, his conscience shouted at him. Illya looked down, frowned, suddenly very angry at himself.

“I do not know.”

It was Napoleon’s turn to frown, but he did not press the matter. His smile had disappeared now, and so had any easiness that could have sparked between them. Illya opened the door fully and went in, closely followed by Napoleon. Mr Waverly must have told the receptionist to expect Napoleon’s arrival, since she gave him security clearance. Illya felt even more stupid. Why had he doubted? He did not know if it was a question of trust, trusting himself or Napoleon?

They were early. Illya, out of habit, walked to his office, but once in front of the door, he did not know what to do. He wanted time to fly faster, fly past them and stop just before nine o’clock. The bricks in his stomach were getting heavier and heavier. It must have shown on his face, because Napoleon asked:

“Do you feel well? You look pale.”

Be honest…

“I don’t know.”

No. He did not feel well at all, too busy loathing himself. Napoleon smiled a half-smile, and for a second Illya imagined that Napoleon would put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. Nothing happened, and eventually Illya said:

“I did not sleep well. Excuse me.”

Napoleon bought the lie, or he was polite enough not to say anything.

Illya let out a silent breath, glad that he did not have to justify himself yet. Of course, his respite was short lived, as it became clear that they could not stay in the corridor forever. They had two possibilities, going into the office or find somewhere else to go. Illya knew he would feel trapped inside his office, he wanted to avoid it as much as possible until he was alone, after the conversation.

“Do you want a coffee?” he finally asked. It was the first thing that had crossed his mind, the coffee machine. Somewhere away from here, somewhere where they could wait.

Napoleon nodded, adding a “With pleasure,” as he gestured for Illya to show the way.

While Napoleon was drinking his coffee, Illya tried his best to find something to say. There was still forty five minutes before their rendezvous with Mr Waverly, they could not stay like this, looking at each other and saying nothing. In fact, whether it did not bother Napoleon, or he hid it very well, Illya did not know.

Luckily for them, there was no bored secretary or nervous junior agent waiting at the coffee machine. Only the few seats, the familiar bulk of the machine and the two potted plants that were supposed to decorate the place. Napoleon did not sit down once he took his first cup of coffee, but leaned against the machine, calm, stirring the coffee even if Illya had not seen him put sugar inside. For a few minutes, they did not talk, and Illya let Napoleon run his thoughtful eyes over the floor tiles, not wanting to interrupt anything. He too stayed standing.

Between two mouthfuls of coffee, Napoleon broke the silence:

“By the way Kuryakin, I have not seen your… she is your partner, right? Gaby? Well, I have not seen her in quite a time, so when you see her, give her my thanks. She was a much welcome company during my stay in the hospital.” He chuckled. “I do not remember much of it, but she was nice.”

Illya was taken aback by the request. He was not so much surprised by the fact that Napoleon remembered Gaby. Yet there was something so casual about it, like they were simply chatting around a cup of coffee. Like there was nothing to be worried about right now.

“She will appreciate it,” answered Illya. As he said the words, he began to notice subtle things that had eluded him before.

If Napoleon was indeed as charming and suave as he had been upon their first encounter, Illya now saw that Napoleon’s shoulders were more relaxed, the corners of his smile genuine, his eyes less wary. Of course, Illya could not ignore the traces of Napoleon’s stay in the medical facility, something on the skin, shadows under the eyes. Yet, Napoleon looked as if he actually wanted to be here, well he did not seem to mind. Napoleon took a few coins out of his pockets and bought himself another coffee. When the machine stopped beeping, Napoleon asked Illya, coffee in hand.

“By the way, I wonder what the old Waverly wants to tell us. It must be quite important…”

Illya did not hide the expression of surprise on his face. In the medical facility, he had not told Napoleon what the discussion would be about, but he had assumed… he had never thought… well, he had been wrong. Napoleon seemed to be clueless, and was now looking at Illya, eyes questioning.

Illya gathered his courage, and answered. “I am sorry I did not tell you.” What if Napoleon changed his mind now? “I thought it would be obvious…” What if he wanted to leave, what if he did not want to talk? “It is about you.”  _ I did not mean it like that, not at all. _ “About what Mr Waverly should have told me since the beginning, he thought it would be better if you–”

“Wait, but you told me you knew everything in Paris. Did you get knocked on your head and miraculously forgot everything?”

Napoleon’s eyes had stopped looking at his now nearly empty cup of coffee and were searching Illya’s face for an answer as he spoke. There was an undertone in his voice that Illya could not decipher well. Was it some sort of choked laughter or disappointment? “We both did. Technically you got hit and I fell.” As if this was the most important information! Illya, you fool! “I remember telling you… I think I tried to say a lot of things then.” It was true, Illya had not been very coherent then, but he had been in a rush to save Napoleon. He remembered saying something along the lines of ‘I know everything’, but it was not clear in his mind.

“Okay…”

Napoleon looked down in his cup again and smiled, though his answer sounded unconvinced. Illya thought that he was maybe struggling a bit with his memories of the events in Paris. Since they would be talking with Mr Waverly in a few minutes about Napoleon’s past, there was no need for Illya to give him an account of what he knew right now. There was no need to make things worse than they already were. He did not think it would be helpful, and so answered honestly but laconically:

“But yes, I know some things. Belmont gave Vinciguerra and me a summary of your life. I do not know any details do not worry–”

“I am not worried.” Napoleon’s smile grew sweet, and Illya smiled in return. Napoleon was peculiar, or so thought Illya. In his place, he would have been so ashamed… he would have… maybe the years would have dulled the edges. Perhaps Napoleon had other worries, other shameful secrets. Or perhaps Illya was not important enough for Napoleon. After all, he did not know why Napoleon had not talked to Belmont. Some part of him had taken it for himself,  _ he saved my life, he did not betray me.  _ But did Napoleon really… Illya briefly closed his eyes. He had better not think too much, unless he wanted to fall back into the familiar pattern of worry, frustration, anger. It would not do now. When he reopened his eyes, he saw ten to nine on his watch’s face. It was time to go for the rendezvous.

“We should leave now and go to Mr Waverly’s office, if we want to be on time.”

Napoleon nodded and threw his empty cup into the garbage can. The two men then silently climbed into the elevator. Illya would soon know all the details, there was indeed no reason to be worried.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive my lateness, having a guest at home does not help my punctuality.   
> Also Chapter 50?! Can you believe it? Enjoy!

The elevator ride was silent, so different than the ride in Paris which Illya had so many times remembered. They walked in silence in the corridors, and waited for Mr Waverly’s secretary to show them in his office.

Mr Waverly was sitting behind his desk, his eyes scanning through a file. He looked up when the door opened, but did not get up.

“Thank you Miss. Please make sure that I am not disturbed unless it is an emergency. Mr Kuryakin, Mr Solo, please sit down.”

Both men complied, and the secretary closed the door. Illya searched Mr Waverly’s face for a clue about his mood, but he had the perfect poker face on. Eventually, Mr Waverly said:

“Good morning gentlemen.”

“Good morning Sir,” they both answered at the same time.

Mr Waverly looked at Napoleon then. “I suppose Mr Kuryakin told you what we will be talking about, Mr Solo.”

“I learned this morning, it must have slipped his mind.”

Mr Waverly looked disapprovingly at Illya. Yet he did not say that this discussion was taking place because Illya had kind of asked for it, and simply cleared his throat.

“I am sorry,” Mr Waverly answered, and it should not have surprised Illya, but he looked sincere.

“Who would have thought it would come down to this?” Napoleon looked at Illya, something funny in his eyes. “How shall we proceed?”

Mr Waverly looked at his hands for a few seconds, then said, “I thought it would be a good idea to wait until you were well to explain the whole story to Mr Kuryakin, so if you do not mind I will let you begin.”

Mr Waverly made a polite gesture with his hand, meaning ‘when you want’, and Napoleon nodded, slowly, then looked from Mr Waverly to Illya. “All right. I will keep it as short as possible, it is not that I do not like my own story but…” he closed his eyes, swallowed, then opened his mouth again. He was different, so different now. He was older, and so much more intense. “I am sorry Kuryakin that you became mixed in all this. Yet I need to know what you learned.”

Illya did not know what to answer. The atmosphere had become too solemn in the blink of an eye. Napoleon was looking at him, waiting. Illya swallowed, cleared his throat and eventually answered:

“Well, after Belmont brought Vinciguerra and I to see you in your cell, we, uh, I mean they, they began to talk about you. About the security breach, and who might have wanted to harm them. When Vinciguerra recognised you from the party, Belmont told us that she was suspecting you to work for,” Illya pointed at Mr Waverly, “for you Sir. Then she told us a few things she knew… she told us that you were a brilliant CIA agent in the past, but that you spoke up against your superiors and in consequence they…” Illya paused then, and Napoleon arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. Illya did not like to be the centre of attention, he did not want to say that. He wanted to say to Napoleon that it did not change anything and that he really wanted to get to know him. That what Belmont had said was of no importance! “… They ruined your reputation as an agent and forced you to become a prostitute.” He breathed out. “That is about it.”

Napoleon looked lost in his thoughts for a few seconds, and Illya tried to look for support on Mr Waverly’s side, but his boss, looking tired, had his eyes on Napoleon and did not even spare Illya a glance.

“Well, she just gave you the bare facts. I imagine that it must have come as a surprise to you that I was ex-CIA. Well, it is true. All my problems began there. How I came to work for the CIA does not matter here, and I had been doing my job for them quite well. We all have our talents, and I was, and still am, a good thief, I can break in and out of many rooms, safes, whatever. They also trained me to use my natural charm as a con-man, and for some time it was great. I liked my job, you understand that Kuryakin, you seem to like yours very much. As time passed, my superiors began to give me more important missions, jobs where I had to get my hands and other parts of my body dirty. I killed people for the job then, in cold blood, when they were asleep beside me.” He scrunched up his nose then, shaking his head. “I did not like it, but it was for the job. And the job was for my homeland. The job was everything. I climbed up the ladder. I heard them sometimes, and they said I was a damn fine agent. That I would become one of the bests. It was okay with me then. I could not hope for a better career.” He stopped talking then, letting Illya digest his words a few seconds.

Mr Waverly produced a bottle of brandy from one of his desk’s drawers, and poured three glasses. He gave one to Illya who did not yet touch it, and one to Napoleon who drank one long gulp.

Napoleon then licked the alcohol from his lips and went on with his story. “I was quickly becoming one of the bests. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the drawbacks. Back when I was a simple field agent, with no real responsibility, I was content to follow the orders and not to ask questions. Nobody would have answered anyway. Yet there lies the catch: when you begin giving orders, when you are no longer an expendable agent, you learn things. New things are asked of you. I do not say that I was blind to the methods and tortures used before, but when it was directly asked of me to kill innocents, or to interrogate some political prisoners… it was different. There were orders I could not give. Even the best have some kind of conscience.”

Napoleon paused to catch his breath, and, before he could go on, Illya said:

“So you spoke up.”

Illya knew that he should not speak, he should let Napoleon finish his story in peace, but he had felt compelled to say the words. To him they were… impossible. He had done  _ things  _ for the KGB, he had  _ seen, heard _ , but never ever he would have thought of speaking against it. This was not how things worked. Even saying the words felt unreal.

Napoleon did not seem bothered by Illya’s words, and he simply nodded. “It was my worst mistake. I confronted my superiors. I was younger then, and felt invincible. I thought that refusing was easy. Of course, the big bosses did not like it, and before I understood how deep in shit I was, they made me pay.”

He drank another mouthful of brandy. His eyes were burning, burning right into Illya’s mind. Illya could not look away, he was trapped listening. He no longer wanted to hear what would follow, he did not want to imagine. Not because of the horrors, no, but because Napoleon did not seem to regret, to be sad, to… he was too objective, his tone was too neutral. He was detached, as if it had already been so long ago, as if the wound had closed, but how was that possible?

“I am sorry, but the story will be more… patchy from now on. I remember waking in a cell, I never knew where. Some of my superiors visited me, they were sorry for me, they were sorry for themselves, but they had no choice, no choice to do this to me. I do not know how much time passed between each visit, I do not remember all of their words. I remember pain, dull, I remember being thirsty, but not for water. Too late I realised what they were doing, it was too late and I was done for. It is funny how…” Napoleon trailed off, looking in his glass. His tone was no longer dry and detached, there was something angry there. It was something Illya could finally relate too, anger. “How quickly you become addicted. I do not know what kind of sick chemicals they mixed, but I must have been in a sorry state.”

Napoleon smiled a crooked smile, and Illya realised that the wound had never closed. Napoleon asked Mr Waverly to pour him another glass, and the older man obliged. Napoleon was very good, he was the best at hiding behind smiles and sly charm, but now he had willingly let the mask slip. Illya felt bricks pile up in his stomach again, but he was no longer nervous. He was angry, he felt sick. He felt powerless, but who has the power to change the past?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and thank you again for your love and support!


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get even closer to the end, enjoy!

Illya felt sick, even more so as he could not say anything. Inside him, anger swirled, targeting the closest item. He was angry at the whole world, at himself, at Napoleon’s superiors, at himself again. He wanted to say sorry, but he knew it was impossible. Sorry meant nothing there. All Illya could do was to listen to Napoleon.

Napoleon downed half of his glass, and went on. “One day, the boss came to see me. He asked me to choose. They could kill me now, I remember, he said mercy, it will be mercy. They could let me live. I am a coward, I suppose. I chose life, I must have thought I could outsmart them once out. How wrong was I! They had changed my life, twisted it out of me to re-shape it. Everything I had done for them was a crime. I was a common thief, a killer, I was nothing. With each passing hour I craved more and more the drugs they had been feeding me for God knows how many weeks!” He paused there to catch his breath, and began again, his tone somehow calm. “I told you that I did not remember everything, and the few days that followed are not very clear. I remember being told what my life now was, I remember needing the drugs so much that I became desperate. I suppose this was why my boss had told me it would be a mercy killing, if I had chosen death! Over the next weeks, I got into the bed of several rich people, not the honourable kind. My reputation as a Casanova was not helping, and I am certain now that the CIA helped. Some were all too happy to see me like this.” Napoleon swirled the alcohol in his glass, as if he was hesitating to drink it. “I do not know how many months passed, it is a dark blur in my mind. I was lucky though, I could have died from an overdose any day. What follows…” He looked at Mr Waverly, and Illya followed his gaze. “What follows is no longer only my story.”

Mr Waverly nodded, thoughtful. He cleared his throat, and said: “Thank you Mr Solo. I am sorry I had to ask you to tell all this, and I shall continue from now on. It was two years ago, and I had sent Miss Dancer and her partner on a regular infiltration and clean-up mission. They managed quite well, and called me to report when the job was done. It came as a surprise to me, when they told me that our target had not been alone, but that there was someone with him, not in a pretty state, and you guess who it was Mr Kuryakin. Miss Dancer could not have recognised Mr Solo then, but once I went to see him in the medical facility, to try to find out if he was a potential threat or an innocent, I did recognise him.”

Mr Waverly stopped talking then, when he noticed Illya’s surprised expression. Illya had no idea how Mr Waverly could have recognised Napoleon, since he had never said that he had worked for the CIA, and Napoleon had not said in his recollection that he had already met Mr Waverly. Yet there was worse. Far worse… two years ago, Illya had already been working here, for U.N.C.L.E. He might not have been as important as he was now, he might have not known as much as he did now, but he had heard nothing about this. Everything had happened right here, under his nose, and he had not suspected a thing. Illya understood why Mr Waverly did not tell them everything. Objectively, he understood, but right now it felt wrong. Illya felt heat creep up on his cheeks and in the back of his skull. There was no rational reason to be angry, but keeping his emotions in check had never been Illya’s forte. Eventually, Illya said:

“But… how did you recognize him, Sir?”

“Oh that… Well, Mr Kuryakin, you do know that I am in contact with several CIA employees, mostly high-ranked ones. I had dealt with Mr Solo on a personal basis once or twice, when the CIA and U.N.C.L.E. exchanged favours. Besides, I had heard of his fall from grace. Every important person in the business did. Anyway to go on with the story, you imagine the dilemma I faced then. On the one hand I was not stupid enough to believe that it would take long for the CIA to learn where Mr Solo was, and I could not risk to anger them. Yet, on the other hand I could not not help Mr Solo. I decided to hide him as best as I could and wait for him to wake up. Then…” Mr Waverly trailed off, casting a glance at Napoleon, who chuckled dryly.

“I guess I was not very helpful. I remember recognising you too, and I remember thinking something on the line of ‘fuck my pride’, as if I had any left. I knew Mr Waverly, I knew he was a good man, and my survival instincts kicked in. If someone could save me, it had to be him, and so, yes, the right words is beg. I begged him to save my life.”

Mr Waverly smiled most probably at Napoleon’s choice of words than at the memory. Illya had a hard time picturing Napoleon begging anyone for his life. He had to admit that this Napoleon was maybe not the one he knew. The Napoleon Illya knew was now silent, and Mr Waverly took it as a clue to speak again:

“As he said to you, Napoleon asked me to help him. I had already taken enormous risks by rescuing him, and I had little time to decide what I would do, little time before Mr Solo’s ex-superiors would come in. I realised soon that, even if they did not want for Mr Solo to live very long, they still thought they could use him. An ex-CIA agent turned whore is a hard to resist bait. I took a decision then: I would help Mr Solo, while taking as few risks as possible. I could not employ him, I could not influence anything about his change of identity, but there were some things I could do. I asked doctors to help him. Little by little, he got off the drugs, his health, both mental and physical, improved. I offered him small jobs, as an informant, or some other little things like the mission you two did together. It was the least I could do. The CIA officials knew of course, and after the first month they contacted me. They were not openly threatening, but made me understand very clearly that it would not end well for U.N.C.L.E. if I ever had the idea to officially protect him.”

Mr Waverly stopped there, clearly waiting for an answer on Illya’s part. It was a lot to swallow, all this information, it was not too much, yet Illya’s brain had trouble handling it. Everything sounded so much like Mr Waverly. Helping people but never pitying them. Never taking too many risks, while walking on a thin thread above the void. Illya perfectly remembered Napoleon’s words back in the beginning.  _ I owe your boss. _ If only he had guessed how much then! It all perfectly made sense, and in the end Illya was the fool. The fool who acted without thinking, who questioned his boss’s intentions without proof… He did not, in all objectivity, regret his actions. He had done what had to be done by saving Napoleon, and he still did not understand why Mr Waverly had not trusted him with this knowledge before. Why he had not trusted him. Illya wanted to ask this question,  _ why did you not trust me, why, why _ , but what Mr Waverly had said prompted his tongue to speak quicker than his brain could think. He shouted:

“That is why you said he was none of your business!”

“Indeed Mr Kuryakin. Sometimes I have to say and do things that do not please me. I know that you may not understand, for you never had to deal with the political and administrative mess that I dwell constantly in. There were and still are risks. What you did–”

Illya opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to say something like  _ ‘I would not have done what I did if you had explained everything to me in the beginning’,  _ but Mr Waverly shushed him with a hand gesture. He drank from his glass and went on:

“I know. I am not ungrateful towards Mr Solo’s actions when he was Belmont’s prisoner, and I did worry about his fate then, and as I already told you, I understand why you acted the way you did, but please try to understand. The CIA is powerful. You, Illya Kuryakin, you live on American soil because you work for me, because of some sort of diplomatic immunity U.N.C.L.E. provides you. What would happen to you and the other agents if I could no longer protect you? We are living through dark times, and staying politically neutral is not the easiest way. I have to make concessions so this organisation may exist.”

“I understand. I am sorry Sir,” Illya began. “I should not have doubted you, nor why you did or said certain things. It was not my place to do so. Yet, may I ask you something?”

Mr Waverly nodded. “Apology accepted. Please ask.”

Napoleon, who had remained silent for the last few minutes, turned his head towards Illya who suddenly felt awkward at being the centre of attention. He had learned so much, he should have been grateful, but now was the only moment to ask. It would probably unbalance the whole conversation, Illya putting his finger in the most important cog, but he deserved to know.  _ Am I not trustworthy Sir? Is there still something I do not understand? _

“As I said, I understand the risks, but why did you keep everything from me? You could have told me, in the very beginning? It would have spared us trouble, no?”  _ Why did you not trust me? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and as always, thank you for your love and support!


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On time for once, enjoy! :p

Illya knew at once that Mr Waverly had understood the undertones,  _ Why did you not trust me? Am I not trustworthy Sir? Say, Sir, am I not trustworthy?  _ His boss combed a hand through his hair, looking exhausted if neither embarrassed nor guilty.

“It had nothing to do with you Mr Kuryakin. For, you see, it is an agreement between Mr Solo and myself, which–”

“Which I was the one to instigate.”

Illya had not anticipated Napoleon’s voice suddenly cutting Mr Waverly’s. He turned his head, quite shocked. A silent ‘why’ died on his lips. Napoleon was looking at him, face set into a confident, somehow cold mask. He did not flinch under Illya’s glare, and said, his voice not a bit apologetic:

“As Mr Waverly said, it is not about you Kuryakin. Not at all. After some weeks, but still during the beginning of… our cooperation, I asked Mr Waverly not to tell his employees of my background. On the few times I had worked with some of your colleagues, it always went better when I was just some nameless whore who happened to know Mr Waverly than if they knew I was a disgraced CIA ace who has to stoop as low as I did. I have lost enough pride throughout my life to wish to cling on what little dignity I have left.”

Napoleon’s tone left no room for argument. Illya would not have been able to answer even if Napoleon had invited him to. Everything he had imagined had crumbled, had been turned upside down, pouring cold water all over him. Illya had never ever thought that Napoleon could have asked Mr Waverly for this. It was impossible, yet Napoleon’s eyes did not lie.

Illya needed time to think. How would he have acted if he had known since the beginning who Napoleon was? He tried to imagine, it was difficult… What had Napoleon been afraid of? Pity? Disgust? Illya was not like the others… he would have not judged him for his past. Or so he hoped. Illya also wondered who of his colleagues Napoleon had worked with. What had these colleagues told Napoleon? Illya tried to look deeper into Napoleon’s blue eyes. For the first time he really noticed the little brown patch on top of his left eye. He wondered why he had never seen it before today, why he had not looked beyond. Napoleon blinked, eyes locked with Illya, without an ounce of animosity. Perhaps, thought Illya, he would have acted just like the others, it would have been worse. He wanted to say that he was sorry, but he knew that it was the exact opposite of what Napoleon might want.

“I understand. I should not have questioned you Sir and–”

Napoleon chuckled, an unnatural sound in the heavily silent room. “And I had no way of knowing you would be different!”

A smile suddenly lit up Illya’s face. He did not know what to do with it, but kept it plastered on his face like a fool. From behind his desk, Mr Waverly was looking at them, looking at two fools and waiting. He was waiting, and soon both Napoleon and Illya looked his way. He smiled at them, and in his smile were all the worries that both Illya and Napoleon had forgotten for a few seconds. Napoleon stopped smiling, then drank a mouthful of brandy and said:

“There was something else also. I think I do trust you now, since you saved my life. However, at the beginning, I had no idea what could have been your links to the CIA. It did have to do with trust then, yet I know you understand. Trust is not something easily won in our job, and I have quite a lot of reasons to trust people even less than an average spy, if such a person exists. Mr Waverly did not say anything mainly because of this too. He was always very respectful. I owe him more than my life. I owe you a lot too Kuryakin, what you did is beyond words.” Illya had no time to get angry or grateful at these words, no time to react or think, as Napoleon’s tone changed, turning deadly serious again. “Yet it rises another question, if I may ask, gentlemen?”

“Please,” answered Mr Waverly.

“What will happen now?”

Napoleon let the question fall like a brick into the calm and cold surface of a lake. It created thousands of ripples in the air, and Mr Waverly took a deep breath before answering:

“I honestly do not know. It was my main concern when Mr Kuryakin left New York to rescue you. He took precautions, yet I had no trouble tracing him in Paris and if I could do it, then the CIA too could. I was contacted by one of their agents a few hours after Mr Kuryakin’s departure. I suppose they had been trying to find you since your abduction, they must have been following you.” Mr Waverly paused then, looking both Illya and Napoleon in the eye before going on. “The agent told me that, from their point of view, it looked as if Mr Kuryakin had acted under my direct orders, since they knew that the both of you had worked together. They did not like it, insinuating that I was breaking the mock compact we had.”

Mr Waverly stopped again, this time his eyes set on Illya and Illya alone.

“We were in trouble, and I had very little time to think of a plan, so I bluffed.”

“They believed you?” asked Napoleon, incredulous to say the least.

Mr Waverly shrugged. “I suppose they did, since they have been leaving us alone. I acted as if I had no idea that Mr Solo was in Paris, and that I had indeed sent Mr Kuryakin as a backup for Miss Teller. They bought it, until the two of you were seen falling down, unconscious in the middle of Paris. I was quicker than the CIA and brought the two of you here as soon as I could without taking any risks for your health. Before even Mr Kuryakin woke up, the agent was back again. I told him that the rescue of Mr Solo happened by chance. To be honest with you, I do not think they believed me, but having no proof, they did nothing. If I believed in luck, I would say that we all had an insane amount of it. Yet this being said, I cannot answer your question.”

Napoleon looked down, his eyes not meeting Illya’s, looking at his glass. Illya felt a wave of guilt, a guilt he did not want to feel, submerge him. Why had it to be so complicated? Illya had done the right thing, he had done what he had to do, but how could he have imagined the consequences? Slowly, the guilt turned to anger.

“I am sorry,” Mr Waverly finished, “for I do not know what will happen once you step out of this room, out of these headquarters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, see you Wednesday!


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End-3...

A heavy silence had fallen on the room.

Illya’s eyes went from Mr Waverly to Napoleon to the table. Strangely enough, Mr Waverly’s office felt safe. The door was closed, there was no window, no clear sign that the outside world existed. Some part of Illya’s brain kept repeating like an idiot  _ if he does not leave this room, if he does not leave the headquarters, if we do not leave, if we do not leave, then we are safe. We are still safe. He is safe, he is safe, he is safe, as long as he does not leave. I have to prevent him from leaving. _

Napoleon’s voice broke the silence of the room and the litany of Illya’s thoughts, “I shall talk to them.”

“You cannot!” shouted Illya without thinking.

“Yet I actually think it is the best thing I can do. Look,” Napoleon made a gesture with his hands, as if to gather his thoughts, and went on, “it is evident that the CIA will try to contact me. With enough skill, if I decide to come to them, I can have the upper hand.”

“I think I see where you are going,” said Mr Waverly. He seemed deep in thoughts, his eyes set on Napoleon.

Illya, knowing very well that he would not sound intelligent at all, still said, incredulous:

“Well, I do not. I think that would be tak–”

“No, listen. If we look back at everything that happened lately, if I was a CIA agent, and I have been one, so I know best; the thing that would worry me would not be whether or not Solo works for Waverly or anything like that. What would be important is what Solo could have said to Miss Lucia Belmont and Miss Victoria Vinciguerra while in captivity. Do you see where I am going now?”

Illya nodded. He was beginning to see what Napoleon meant, it did sound logical, yet it was still too dangerous. He did not like it, he did not like it at all. He said nothing, and so Napoleon went on:

“I can understand their concern, and so, I come by myself to tell them that nothing happened. There is a high probability that they will not believe me, and an even higher one that they may decide to pull a bullet through my brain or something worse. I do not know. But if they believe me, if I am honest, the outcome may be even better than what I hoped for.”

“I will not lie to you, Mr Solo, I do not like this. It seems though that you are right. It could lead to a positive outcome, for you and U.N.C.L.E. both,” said Mr Waverly. Illya hated him just a little bit for that answer.

“Indeed. You know Sir, I do not like it either, and I do not look forward to be there again, but I think it is for the best.”

Mr Waverly nodded then, solemn. He got up from his chair, and Napoleon stood up too. Illya did not know what to do, but he decided to stand up also, just in case. Napoleon and Mr Waverly then shook hands, and Mr Waverly said in lieu of a goodbye:

“I will let you go then. I wish you the best of luck, you know where and when to contact me if necessary.”

“Thank you Sir.”

Napoleon then turned to Illya, and extended his hand. He was smiling, a tiny thing of a half-smile that was not an apology but that was neither Napoleon’s usual confident grin.

“When all loose ends are taken care of, I hope we will meet again, Kuryakin.”

Illya held the hand a second or two more than he should have had. He locked his eyes with Napoleon, unsure of what to say or do, and his reflection in Napoleon’s eyes was laughing at him.

“Yes. I would like to.” Illya wanted to slap himself. He was really brilliant when it came to replies! Napoleon let go of his hand then, and Mr Waverly opened the door of his office. The secretary did not even look up from her papers, and Illya saw Napoleon leave, his silhouette getting smaller as he walked through the corridor. Illya saw Napoleon push the elevator’s button, wait a few seconds then turn around, and wave a hand at him. He imagined he had seen Napoleon wink at him too. Maybe he had, or was it merely a trick of the light?

“Do not worry,” said Mr Waverly as he closed the door to his office again. “I trust Mr Solo, he knows what he is doing.”

“Yes Sir.” Illya’s answer sounded as unconvinced as he was.

“Yet, for your own safety Mr Kuryakin,” Mr Waverly went on, “I think that it may be a good idea for you to conveniently leave New York for let’s say… a week or two?”

“Are you certain Sir?” The prospect of leaving yet again did not please Illya too much, even if he had to admit that it was not a bad idea. The CIA would be most likely not to harass him if he acted as though everything was normal.

“Quite. I thought that you could help to train some junior recruits in England. I will need a few hours to talk about it with the instructors, if you do not object.”

Illya could not really object. He did not want to go to the training camp in England, but if there was no pressing mission to do, it was better than nothing. It would prevent Illya from worrying too much about Napoleon. He would not see him at every street corner, he would not see him in every smartly dressed brunettes. It would be easier to wait far away, to let time fly by.

“I do not object Sir. Do you wish me to remain here at the headquarters or–”

“Oh, you can go home, do not worry. You will not be leaving before tomorrow.” Mr Waverly cut him, and went to open the door again. His hands on the doorknob, he added, “By the way, I would like for you not to say anything of what we discussed here to Miss Teller. I trust her, but it will not be my decision to tell her.”

“You can trust me,” answered Illya. He knew that Gaby would be curious, but she would also be respectful enough not to ask any questions if Illya told her not to. Maybe, thought Illya one day would come when Napoleon would decide to tell her his story himself. That would be for the better.

Mr Waverly and Illya shook hands, and after wishing each other a nice day, Illya left the office. He walked through the corridor, just like Napoleon had done a few minutes ago. Illya’s mind was empty for now. He had learned so many things, once at home he would lie down and try to think it over. For now, he walked. He went in the elevator and pressed the button to the floor level.

There, alone in the moving elevator, Illya heard a voice through the silence of his mind.  _ ‘I have seen worse, I told you.’ _ Illya smiled to himself and answered, his words echoing of the shiny walls. “I know. I know.”

When he finally left the headquarters, Illya felt strangely well. He should perhaps have been more worried for Napoleon, but everything told him to simply trust the man and wait. Illya took a taxi to his flat, looking through the tinted glass of the window, thinking about the conversation with Napoleon and Mr Waverly. He was no longer angry at his boss, he understood. He thought about Napoleon, and found that he had, in less than a day, more admiration for him than he had ever thought he could. With the knowledge of what Napoleon had lived, the way he had acted with Illya, his words… everything fell into place.

It fell so much into place that Illya’s words to Gaby were both laconic and reassuring at home. He told her that he could not really give her the details of what had happened, and that it would be Napoleon’s own decision. Gaby of course asked a few questions, but she must have sensed that Illya would not give in, because she congratulated him and moved on to other subjects, mainly her work, how tiring it was, and that she was not meant for this, but for the field, the adrenaline... She had in fact scattered a dozen of reports on the living room table, and the same number –if not more– of empty coffee cup where lying around, and Illya consented to move his chessboard to the kitchen table. He played in the soothing silence of his home until lunch, and then talked some more with Gaby, not about the events of the morning, but about her own work.

Early in the afternoon, Illya got a call from Mr Waverly. He would indeed be leaving for England, to a training camp near Liverpool where junior agents received advanced physical and weapons training. It was not rare to see an important, experienced agent taking a few days to train them.

The next morning, Gaby helped Illya pack, and later in the car that was taking them both to the airport, she said for the umpteenth time:

“What I would give to be in your place! You will be having so much fun!”

Illya laughed, and said: “I would prefer to be on an actual job, but as Mr Waverly said, it is for the better.”

Gaby let go of the stirring wheel to gently slap Illya’s arm, laughing. “You and your secrets!”

Only when the plane took off did Illya began to worry for Napoleon. He watched New York become smaller and smaller, and somewhere, there was Napoleon. Illya trusted him, and he held on to this trust. If Napoleon was confident that he could do it, then he would do it, and when Illya’s plane would land in New York in two weeks, everything would be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed, stay tuned for the next chapter, ILY


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that this is the second to last chapter? Me neither!

Training Junior agents for two weeks. England was too close to Paris and Italy for Illya’s liking. During daytime, he should have been was too busy training the junior agents to think, but at night… at night, when the juniors were sleeping, struck down by exhaustion, he was wide awake, and all the thoughts he had tried to repress during the day ran wild. His thoughts kept coming back to Napoleon. Napoleon. 

Each day, wille the junior agents were running, shooting and strategising for fake missions, Illya’s control was slipping and his mind was strying a little bit further away from what was in front of his eyes. 

Memories coming back. 

_ I want for us to make a fresh start. _

It was not their fault that Illya was pining, yet the junior agents were slowly realising that they were not the main concern of their instructor. It took them three days to make it rumours and gossip. What could put the infamous icy russian Peril’s head in the clouds? And Illya never noticed their side glances and chuckles. 

He was replaying his meeting with Napoleon in loops. The trip to Paris. The rescue. The endless days in the hospital.  

That professional kiss Napoleon had planted on Illya’s reluctant lips, a small spark that had grown out of control. It had taken too long for Illya to realise that his relationship with Napoleon was beyond owing him an apology. It was beyond gratefulness. It was beyond their short partnership. 

Illya was pining for a fresh start. For that hello he should have given on the first day. He wanted a chance at being friends. He wanted the oportunity to push that friendship further and return that kiss.

And at that moment, stuck a few miles from Liverpool watching junior agents fail fake missions, Illya had no way of knowing if he would ever get the chance to kiss Napoleon.

 

Was Napoleon even still alive? He had said himself that there was a chance the CIA would simply kill him without asking questions. Would Mr Waverly deliver the news himself, or would he stay silent? There was even the possibility that they would not get any news, left wondering for weeks until those weeks turned into months and the certainty that Napoleon was indeed dead.

Waiting in that liminal space between someone else’s life and death was getting on Illya’s nerves day after day. He was snapping at the junior agents for the smallest mistakes. He was almost feeling sorry for them. It was not their fault that he was worried. It was not his fault that for the first time of fhis life, he had genuinely fallen in love. 

He had fallen hard, and for the second time since meeting Napoleon, it might have been too late. Illya had suceeded in saving Napoleon once, but there was no saving now. 

Napoleon was willingly facing his fate alone, like he had almost died for Illya and U.N.C.L.E. willingly.

For once, Illya had had to accept that the situation was out of his control. His days in England were almost finished. The plane back to New York was on the horizon, and Illya could no longer bear the wait. Had he been religious, he would have prayed for Napoleon’s life. But he knew, deep deep inside he knew that Napoleon was beyond any help. Letting go of someone he did not even have yet was difficult.

 

On the last day, Illya was almost already gone, over the Atlantic and in New York. The last two weeks had been long, too long for his tastes.

When he finally stepped into the plane, Illya had forgotten how much he hated the lack of space between the seats, and the nine hours of sitting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, stay tuned for the ending!


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's the end! The end, at last!

When he finally stepped into the plane, Illya had forgotten how much he hated the lack of space between the seats, and the nine hours of sitting.    
He had had time to make peace with his feelings. He was so ready. He had so much to say to Napoleon. He only had to close his eyes, and spend nine hours imagining the reunion. Painting in his mind Napoleon’s face, his intelligent and warm eyes - wearing sunglasses, maybe? His lips, cocked into an ever-charming smile.    
Oh, how Illya had hated that smile in the beginning! Yet now, he saw beyond it. He had seen the pain. And as annoyed as he had been by the flirtatious glances behind brandy glasses, he had caught a glimpse of what was lying beyond Napoleon’s protective walls.    
What he had seen was beautiful, and he wanted the full view. He wanted the chance to explore. Illya’s spirits were high in the clouds, above the plane, yet now that he was coming back, it was all getting real. Hitting Illya square in the face. Not only the fantasy, but is old friend the fear. 

What if Mr Waverly disapproved of that relationship Illya dreamed of? What if he deemed it too dangerous for Illya’s career, too dangerous for U.N.C.L.E.?   
The CIA could destroy them. Mr Waverly had been right, they had the power to send Illya back to the USSR, to damage U.N.C.L.E., to put a bullet in the back of their head when they would leave a restaurant to go home. It would be a constant danger, not only society judging them, hating them, and not even trying to understand them. It would be a death threat from the highest authority.    
Illya balled his fists. He was not afraid of the CIA. He was stronger than that. Napoleon was no longer part of the CIA, what rights did they have on him? Illya was frustrated. Him, who had mostly gone with the flow his whole life, wanted to speak up. Shake things, make them change. More than ever, he could feel a connection with Napoleon, and more than ever, Illya wanted to make up for the lack of respect he had shown to Napoleon. And he would never let the CIA get in the way of it.    
Illya managed to relax for a few minutes, until his brain turned the thought of the CIA around so much that another possible retaliation came to his mind. They had ways. Ways to make people talk, ways to change people, ways to make them forget who they were. What if they had found a way to erase Napoleon’s memory of Illya? What if Napoleon never remembered… Illya’s breath quickened. It would not help giving in to anger, not in a plane where he could not do anything about the situation. In or out of the plane, there was nothing he could ever do about it.   
Illya’s fingernails dug into his palm. He would not let the CIA get in the way of his chances with Napoleon. Even if Napoleon did not remember him, Illya would find him, and meet him all over again. No faux-pas, no awkwardness, no disrespect. Napoleon would still be the same, and Illya would love him all the same. Whatever happened, they would get their fresh start.    
With that thought, Illya finally closed his eyes, almost giving in to the dream.    
He woke up with a start and sore muscles when the plane landed in New York. The hand of a flight attendant gently touching his shoulder.    
He must have come up as nice as he usually was towards attendants and drivers and hotel staff, not answering, rushing to his luggage with determination in his step and on his brow. Really, he was just worried. He would not let it show, not to the airport staff and neither to the U.N.C.L.E. driver who took him to the headquarters. 

Once in his office, Illya wanted to meet Mr Waverly at once. He wanted, no he needed to know if Napoleon had left a word for him, and the secretary had given him no mail, so maybe... Yet, Illya had the training report to fill, and training junior agents was not an important enough mission that it justified a meeting. There were other agents, teams and missions. There was an organisation to run, and Illya would talk with Mr Waverly at the end of the day. 

Worried as he was, Illya did not manage to escape jetlag. His lids were heavy and his hand could not hold the pen anymore. He fell asleep hunched over his desk, only to be awoken several hours later by Mr Waverly himself. 

“I am surprised you did not finish your report earlier and jumped at the first occasion to return home to Miss Teller, Mr Kuryakin, but I should have had a hunch.” 

Illya’s brain was too numbed by sleep to feel ashamed at once, but it hit him full force when he saw Mr Waverly’s smile. He had a reputation, dammit!

“I apologise Sir. Planes are not my best friends.” 

“You do not have to apologise. It’s getting late, and I do not think you can correctly rest here. Let’s go.” 

Illya nodded. He took his luggage and followed Mr Waverly out of the door. Not even giving him a chance to speak, Mr Waverly said:

“Besides, I have the feeling you wanted to speak to me.”

“Do you have any news from Napoleon, Sir?” Direct, straight to the point. Illya had lost enough time in this whole affair to have not learned this lesson. Mr Waverly’s answer too, was direct:

“No, no news.” Illya stopped walking, his breath stuck for a fraction of second, before falling back into step with Mr Waverly who had not stoped talking: “Which does not surprise me. Mr Solo has no reason to contact me, or U.N.C.L.E. at the moment.” A logical part of Illya’s brain agreed. His heart did not. “If he was to contact you, I do think he would have used a less obvious method than through your workplace.” They were both outside now, and shook hands.

Illya was walking in the street, frustrated, and yet he hoped there would be a clue about Napoleon’s whereabouts at his flat. Maybe he had to be patient, his mind tried to reason him. There was a possibility that Napoleon was still held by the CIA. Deep in his thoughts, Illya walked faster than he usually did, and was home in a record time. 

By the time he was at the front door of his flat, Illya had managed to calm down. It made sense, that Napoleon would not have risked contacting him via U.N.C.L.E., there was no need to worry. Illya still let his hand hover over his gun as he unlocked the door. He never knew, in his line of work, what could be waiting for him on the other side of the door. He was not afraid of the CIA.  

Yet, as Mr Waverly had hinted at, Gaby was home early and waiting for him. She had previously been reading on the sofa, but got up to welcome Illya when she heard him unlock the door. He did not even answer her inquiries about his stay in England with more than a grunt, did not answer when she asked if he wanted some tea. They both went to the living room. 

“What’s on your mind partner mine?” Gaby finally asked. She sat back down on the sofa. 

“Haven’t you guessed?” asked Illya. He was not in the mood to play games with Gaby, but the sparkled in her eyes told him she would not spill any secret until he at least asked. 

Gaby stirred her tea, her legs crossed in front of her and the cup on her knees. She looked Illya dead in the eyes, and said: “No, I haven’t seen Napoleon since you left.” She made a pause for good measure. “He sent us a letter though.” She handed Illya a folded letter.    
Illya read each and every word of the letter twice. It was all reassuring words, Napoleon was doing all right, his health was good. He was thanking the both of them extensively, especially Gaby for her company during his time in the medical facility. Yet the letter left a bitter taste on Illya’s tongue. There was no date, no place on the letter. Nothing to give away a status or position. Not even a stamp. Either Napoleon had delivered it himself discreetely, or he had paid someone to do so.  Hell, the letter could even have been written the day Illya had last seen Napoleon and scheduled to be sent and arrive later!

Illya did not know what to think anymore. The joy he had felt a few minutes ago was gone now, washed off his body. Gaby must have sensed his distress, as she said:   
“There was also a package with the letter. The gift he mentions.” Illya snapped to attention. “I thought there was not any information in, but look,” added Gaby pushing a few strands of hair away from her ears and pointing to the sparkling golden adornments she was wearing. “He gave me those earrings, to thank me for all I did. They are really good quality, and expensive I suppose. I was not expecting such a gift at all. Yet, one thing I did not see at once, and I think it was his wish, is this.” Gaby smiled brightly then, showed Illya the box in which the earrings had originally been. She opened it and handed Illya a tightly folded piece of paper that was hidden inside. “I read it of course, you know me. Read it, it was meant for you.”  
Not minding her last words, Illya took the note. His heart was starting to beat faster. It was folded in four, and written in pencil, unmistakable, _I K_. Illya unfolded the note, hopeful for a sign, anything. He read it, once, twice, his smile becoming broader. For a few seconds, he said nothing, holding the note, just smiling.  
“ _Meet me in the café where it all began, the morning after you come back, at nine. I will be waiting._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... where to begin? Thank you for staying with me during the journey that was this fic, and I apologise for this... frustrating ending. Now, since I got so much love and support, I might write that sequel I was thinking about. Would you want it? I promise it will not be as frustrating!  
> Thank you again, ILY


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